


Unbroken

by papergirlpapertownn (bellamyblakesgirl)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And so does Aegon, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Dorne gets the plot it deserves, Elia Martell Deserves Better, Elia has a daughter, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, House Martell, House Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Major AU, Mild Language, Original Character(s), Politics, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes, like a really really really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25421185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamyblakesgirl/pseuds/papergirlpapertownn
Summary: she was a mistake. a bastard born of love and taken in by her uncle. And when he decides to send her north under the pretense of seeking out a marriage, she finally thinks this is the moment he is going to disown her. So she fights, pleads, and begs, but her journey north is inevitable, and proves to be more dangerous than she thought.the only ray of sunshine in the cold and dreary climate, Nymeria Martell will not go down without a fight. She will be as fierce as her namesake, and she will prove to the north the true meaning of the words unbowed, unbent, unbroken.ORA viper heads north and finds herself drawn to a crow
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Aegon VI Targaryen, Arthur Dayne/Elia Martell, Jon Snow/Original Female Character(s), Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Sansa Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen
Comments: 47
Kudos: 91





	1. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know my muse moves around like a drunk horse on steroids, but I really wanted to post this story, just to test it out. My last GOT fic did pretty well on here, so I'm taking a stab at it! Tbh, I got bored in quarantine and rewatched several seasons of GOT and realized how much I missed it. 
> 
> (Shameless self-promo: Go read A Dream of Spring on my profile if you want more GOT content and you like Jonsa)
> 
> Before you ask, yes I know there is already a Nymeria Sand, but there are like a thousand Jons and Jeynes. So if you get confused, whenever I'll be referring to the Sand Snake I'll be using her nickname 'Nym' instead. Also, please forgive me if some of the characters are OOC in the beginning, it's been a really long time since I've read the books haha. I'm unsure about my portrayal of Arianne, but this is before we see her in AFFC. Also, it will DEFINITELY change when I write from her POV. 
> 
> Alright, so let's get into it! Everything belongs to George RR Martin, except for my OC and any others that pop up. Any similarities to any other stories is completely coincidental.

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

The Dornish sun made her gleam, tanning her already brown skin a darker color as she moved through the sands beneath her, swiping the spear toward Obara’s feet, catching the older girl off-guard slightly, but not enough to cause her to give up her position. Obara retaliated with a swipe of the blade, the steel snagging her shoulder, blood pulsing from the wound.

“That’s not fair,” Nymeria teased, the two girls circling each other again, sweat dripping down her face, cooling her down as the sun rays beat down on her, head pulsing and eyes itching.

Obara smirked at her cousin’s remark, arcing the daggers toward Nymeria, the latter raising the spear above her head, blocking the blow. “Who said I was fighting fair?” The older girl retorted.

Nymeria returned the smirk and used the shaft to push the older girl back, jabbing her chin with the blunt end, knocking her back.

Her foot collided with Obara’s gut, knocking the wind out of her, causing the girl to fall to her knees, shock crossing her face. Nymeria stood proudly, pointed end of the spear facing the older girl, eyebrows raised in victory.

“You’re right,” Nymeria responded, “Who said we had to fight fair?”

The two of them shared a chuckle before Nymeria grabbed Obara’s hand, helping her out of the unbearably hot sand. They unstrapped their sandals, seeking refuge underneath the makeshift tent while their toes sank into the red grains, warming and relaxing their tired feet while they reached for their waterskins.

“You’re getting better,” Obara panted, draining every last drop of her skin. Nymeria rolled her eyes. The girl didn’t know when to stop. Always impatient. She took a big gulp of the once cold water, letting it dribble down her chin before pouring some into her hands, splashing it across her face, waking her up and cooling her off.

Nymeria scoffed at Obara’s comment, “I beat you, I think I deserve a little more than “getting better”

Obara rolled her eyes, dark brown like her father’s, “Whatever you want to think,”

Nymeria bit her lip, standing up and wiping the sweat from her brow. “Then how about another one?” She challenged, a thrill rushing through her veins at the thought. She loved a good spar. And Obara was always willing.

But this time her cousin shook her head, staring off toward Sunspear, the castle a few paces away, a familiar figure dressed in yellow robes appearing over the sand dunes. “I believe you have more important matters to attend to,”

Nymeria groaned inwardly, collecting her daggers, leaving Obara’s spear leaning against the tent as she sheathed the weapons. Clipping her belt over her hips, the yellow tunic blew behind her as the wind began to pick up, blowing sand in her face.

Her Uncles were the closest people she had to fathers in her life, having raised her from birth. Oberyn always said that she reminded them of her mother, the only woman either of them would listen to.

But she knew she had plenty of her father in her. It was in her outlook, it was when she negotiated for peace instead of war, it was the deeply entrenched honor that not even the Martells could snuff out.

It was why Uncle Doran was training her to take Oberyn’s place when Arianne became Princess. She needed a court representative, and with a Lannister on the throne, it was vital that they did not cause trouble, no matter how much they wanted to.

Nymeria’s blood boiled every time she thought of that heinous woman and her family lording over the Seven Kingdoms, pretending to be better than what she actually was.

That whole family was made up of monsters.

“Ah, there you are ‘Meria,” Oberyn spoke up, the two of them meeting halfway and walking back to Sunspear, sandy dunes replaced with bright brick paths and towering leafy trees, The towering Threefold gate passing over them, allowing them to bypass the labyrinth of walls and narrow passageways that made up the outer portion of Sunspear, “Doran was looking for you.”

Nymeria rolled her eyes, “When is he not?”

Oberyn chuckled at his niece’s comment, relishing in the summery day, “He says it’s a matter of urgency,”

“Which we both know means he has another suitor he’s ready to throw me at,” She quipped, a tired smirk on her face before letting out a groan, “Was he this insistent with you and Elia?”She asked, invoking the dead woman’s name.

It had taken too long to for the family to get comfortable saying Elia’s name again.

Now that they were, Nymeria wanted to learn all she could about the poor woman. She knew that many in Dorne saw Elia when they looked at her. An endless reminder of their lost princess.

It was an insatiable curiosity. A fascination that had yet to end. Thankfully, her Uncles were happy to regale her with their childhood stories, even if it hurt to mention her.

“He was more insistent with me,” Oberyn chuckled, as if recalling a fond memory, “He and I had many meetings like the one you will be having now, endless attempts to get me to settle down”

Nymeria’s lips parted to release an involuntary laugh, the thought of her Uncle tied up at the Sept too ludicrous for words.

“But Elia…” Oberyn paused, like he was tasting the name in his mouth, swishing it back and forth before continuing, “Doran wouldn’t let anyone near her. He was convinced no one would ever be good enough for her.” He sighed, stopping just outside of the Tower of the Sun, the wind blowing through the open corridors, stone and sand sifting slightly, as if moved by Oberyn’s testimony. “He was right.”

Her Uncle clenched his hand, staring off toward King’s Landing, fury darkening his gaze. Nymeria joined him, a comforting hand on his shoulder, swallowing the lump in her throat as she stared toward the last place her mother was seen alive. Before Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane bashed her head in alongside her children’s.

Nymeria was the lucky one, they would whisper.

Made a Martell when she should’ve been a bastard.

Taken in by her Uncles.

Loved by her cousin.

 _Such a pretty girl,_ they would say, _exactly like her mother, let’s hope she doesn’t meet the same fate._

The door crashed open, and Nymeria whipped around, catching sight of her irritated cousin, who no doubt was furious with Doran again.

Arianne huffed as she stormed toward the balcony overlooking the bright oasis in the center of Sunspear, inhaling deeply.

“What did he do this time?” Nymeria asked, pulling herself away from Oberyn to comfort her irritated cousin.

Arianne huffed, blowing a thick dark ringlet away from her face, “Nothing, and that’s the problem. He never leaves the gardens and when he finally does he wants nothing to do with me.”  
Nymeria leaned against the stone pillar, sending Arianne a sympathetic look, “Surely he must have wanted to see you. Why else would he come all this way?”  
Arianne scoffed, blue silks swishing as she paced back and forth, “For you.” She crossed her arms, shaking her head in a very unladylike manner.

Nymeria’s eyebrows creased in confusion, wondering why her Uncle would travel all this way just for a meeting of potential suitors.

“I told him,” Arianne admitted proudly, “About Daemon, about Ser Gerold, and he said nothing. That’s all he does is nothing!” The girl huffed again, “He’s weak. Ever since he decided to make Quentyn his heir…” She trailed off, and Nymeria stared at her cousin.

She pitied her. Arianne had every right to the throne of Dorne. She was the firstborn after all. But instead, Doran had taken leave of his senses, passing her over for Quentyn.

He never even gave her an explanation.

“It’s unfair,” Nymeria supported, guilt tugging at her gut as she spoke out against her Uncle, “You deserve to rule Dorne. It’s your right, and he’ll see that soon enough.”

Arianne paused, looking up from the ground. She nodded, holding her chin up high as she pressed forward. “I am Arianne Martell, the Princess of Dorne.” She smiled at the title, and something glazed over her gaze, “Thank you for reminding me, cousin,” She placed her hand on Nymeria’s arm, squeezing it tightly.

Nymeria returned the smile before heading into the Tower of the Sun, Doran sitting on the orange and gold seat, the spear inlaid behind him, and Oberyn’s, bearing the sun, sat empty. Unused. Waiting for someone to inherit it.

Nymeria hoped it would be her. She and Arianne ruling like sisters, just as it should be.

“You wanted to see me, Uncle?” Nymeria asked, trying to pretend like she didn’t know what this was about.

Doran straightened up, his face breaking out in pain as he tried to hide it. Nymeria knew his gout was getting worse. It had been spread everywhere, even in the darkest corners of Shadow City. The bright dome of the tower and stained glass that encircled the room scattered the sunlight on the pale stone floor, an orange rug the only decoration that had lasted since the Rhoynar integration. Colors danced on the stone, the wide circular hall big enough to hold hundreds. 

“Yes,” He strained, shifting in his seat, “I have plans for you.”

Nymeria tensed. She did not like the sound of that. If his treatment of Arianne was any indication, she was next. And this meant that this would be her last days in Sunspear. Her last days with Obara and Tyene and Arianne. Her last days as a Martell.

He cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly, “I’m sending you North. I had discussed it with Lord Stark and he is more than willing to accommodate you.”

“You’re what?” Nymeria snarled, stomach knotting up at the thought of living in that winter wasteland.

Doran didn’t answer her.

“I won’t do it,” She promised, gritting her teeth and tilting her chin upward, “I won’t go and live with those savages. Especially after what they did to Mother. I won’t, you can’t make me.”

“I can and you will,” Doran shut her down, “And they did not kill your mother,”

“No, but they helped.” Nymeria snapped, her temper spilling forth, patience wearing thin, “They started the war, they were the reason Lannister turned, and Lord Stark’s best friend gave the order to murder her and my half-siblings, so don’t you—”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” Doran bellowed, jumping to his feet, anger blazing in his eyes as he stared down his niece. Nymeria stumbled back, having never seen him like this before, “I ordered you north, and north you shall go.”  
“You ordered me?” She scoffed out, voice thick as she spun the words in her mouth. She watched as he gently lowered himself in his wheelchair, his seat now empty. He looked less imposing. And suddenly Nymeria was struck with a realization.

Arianne was right.

Doran was weak.

Not just physically. And they couldn’t let themselves be pushed around anymore.

“Don’t I at least get an explanation?” She asked, her temper still raging, face growing hot. Doran didn’t answer and Nymeria huffed, “If you’re sending me to the other side of the continent I at least deserve to know why,” She spoke through gritted teeth, crossing her arms, “You owe me that.”

“No, I don’t.” Doran responded sharply, his gaze withering, “I am your Prince and you will do as I say, now go pack, your ship is waiting.”

Nymeria let out a frustrated yell, storming out in a way all too reminiscent of Arianne earlier.

**OBERYN MARTELL**

He didn’t miss the blur of yellow and black that moved past him as he entered the Tower behind her, Doran hanging his head in his palm as the doors shut behind their niece.

He resisted the urge to smirk. Nymeria and Arianne were just like him and Doran in their youth, believing they knew better than the adults that ruled them.

Oberyn knew that Nymeria was more fearful than angry. She had never left Sunspear. Never left Dorne. Doran had treated her just like he had treated her mother. Hiding her away and refusing suitors until the right one came along.

It was his behavior that had caused Elia to marry the Dragon Prince in the first place. She would have been happy with Ser Arthur. She would have been happy anywhere except the capital, but Doran couldn’t get his head far enough out of his ass, and the Martells had been paying for it ever since.

Oberyn loved his brother, truly, but his plans had yet to come to fruition, and now here he was, hiding them again from the family he loved.

“Let me guess,” Oberyn smirked, letting his emotions free, “Ruling is easier than daughters and nieces?”

Doran’s eyes locked with his brother’s, the grey lining his once dark mane becoming more pronounced underneath the dornish sun. “I don’t know how you do it brother,” Doran admitted, sighing as he let his hand fall to his side, “I can barely handle two of them, let alone eight.”

Oberyn shrugged, his eyes scanning the bright fashion decorating the abandoned Tower of the Sun. He imagined it filled with thousands of people, their own vassal houses bowing before them like in the days of Queen Nymeria.

“You should be lucky none of them want to rule,” Oberyn teased, trying to imagine Obara or Tyene sitting on the illuminated chairs. He switched his gaze to Doran, who was now being lead down the stairs by Maester Caleotte, trying to hide his pain. Oberyn strode by his side, following his brother outside toward the docks, where Nymeria was waiting to board _The Mother Rhoyne_ and sail to Winterfell.

“She is the only thing we have left of our sister,” Oberyn breached the topic carefully, knowing how hot-blooded Doran could get when he was questioned, “And you are sending her away to rot among those who started the war that got Elia killed.”

Doran stopped at the outer wall, the balcony giving him a perfect view of the carrack that was headed North. Areo Hotah stood at attention, intimidating the crew into loading the trunks and horses faster.

The guard was loyal to House Martell, and it was unbelievable that Doran was letting him out of his sight, let alone sending him almost three thousand miles away.

Doran waved the Maester away, and when Caleotte was gone, he turned toward Oberyn, “We need more allies than the Targaryens if we want to avenge her,” He spoke clearly, still believing in his plan, “Arianne will secure our place in the capital, but we need more. We need weaknesses.” Doran’s hand gripped the arm of his wheelchair tighter, eyes never leaving the horizon, “Jon Arryn is dead and Robert Baratheon is headed north, alongside his lady wife.”

Oberyn bristled at the thought of the Lady Lannister. He had almost been unlucky enough to be her husband instead of the fat oaf.

He still recalled the insult paid to Elia that day. Tywin Lannister’s offer of a dwarf as a husband to his beautiful sister.

It made his blood boil whenever he thought about it, and Oberyn often wondered if Tywin had been thinking of that day when he gave the order to rape and murder Elia and her children.

“You think he plans to name Eddard Stark hand of the king,” Oberyn focused back on the conversation at hand, blood still boiling.

Doran nodded his head, “I know it. And if Nymeria can not only report back about the King and Queen but gain the North’s sympathy, then perhaps we may have Wolves and Dragons on our side.”

Oberyn watched the small figure of his niece board the ship, the last of the crew loading the last of her belongings into the carrack. “They will tear her apart,” Oberyn spoke freely, taking a chance with his statement, “A daughter of Dorne does not belong among wolves and lions. She will suffer the same fate Elia did in court.”

Doran shook his head, “Nymeria is not her mother.”

Silence fell over the two brothers as they watched the ramp disappear, the ship beginning to sail away.

The sound of rustling paper was heard and Oberyn turned to find a scroll shoved in his face. “What’s this?” He asked, recognizing the sigil from his days studying in Oldtown, wondering what the Maesters could be worrying about now.

“This is an order,” Doran announced, his eyes meeting Oberyn’s, “I need you to head to Oldtown. There are several scrolls and books I need you to consult.”

Oberyn froze, his blood boiling again. “No.” He spat, “I won’t do that to her.”

Doran’s disapproval would shake the strongest men, but Oberyn had been on the receiving end of it for years. Nothing would compel him to dig that up. Not after what had happened.

She didn’t deserve it. It was an insult to her. Surely his brother recognized that?  
Oberyn tried to meet Doran’s eyes once more. When his brother refused, Oberyn resigned himself to the awful truth.

Doran’s plan was simply more important.

“When do I leave?” He asked, trying to keep his temper from getting the best of him. It was a dangerous endeavor. One that shamed not only his sister, but their whole house.

Doran still refused to look at him, “Tonight.”


	2. Arrival At Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nymeria realizes just how different the North really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT!!!! Your guys' responses have been absolutely AMAZING!!!  
> Every single review, kudos, and bookmark has made my day and warms my heart. I had so much anxiety about continuing this, but your guys' love for the story has lessened that so much!
> 
> Thank you so much! 
> 
> These first couple of chapters are kind of slow, so I'm sorry about that, but the plot will be picking up soon! Also, I'd love to hear your guys' thoughts on where the story is going! (It'll be clear pretty soon, but I always love to hear people's theories) 
> 
> Sorry, these first few chapters are kind of short, there's not much to really write about and I wanted to space out the POVs.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!!

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

The wind blew her dark curls back, sending goosepimples up her skin as she drew the thick cloak closer to her. White Harbor was not unfriendly, but something rubbed her the wrong way, especially with the stares the Northmen were giving her.

She knew it was unusual to see the Dornish this far north, just as it was unlucky for Starks to travel south. And yet here she was. Forced to live among Wolves and report back to her Uncle.

At least it wasn’t because he wanted her to marry a Stark. She would have thrown a fit.

If they were still Kings she might not have objected, but she was a Princess of Dorne, and she would not lower herself because of her Uncle’s whims.

She would not join her mother in sharing that fate.

Nymeria’s gaze flew upward as they docked, passing underneath the city wall, towers and brick splitting the harbors in two, the Outer Harbor home to fisherman and merchants who had been pushed aside, while ships donning regal flags and sails docked themselves into the inner harbor. The orange flag bearing the red sun of House Martell whipped behind her, the wind picking up now that they were closer to the city, blowing through the harbor. She was grateful for the leather tunic providing some form of warmth, the violet color less jarring than the oranges and yellows she preferred.

Despite her attempts to blend in, she still stuck out among the greys and blues that the North favored, drawing unwanted attention her way as she descended the ramp, the crew unloading what little she had brought. She wasn’t sure how long she would be here.

She played with the sleeves of her undershirt, unused to wearing anything that extended past her elbows, let alone sleeves that ended at her wrists.

Nymeria felt as if she was being watched by everyone around her, gloomy and wary stares eyeing her olive skin and black curls, sticking out amongst the pale bodies that swarmed the city and she shuffled her feet.

She’d never been so self-conscious before. Nymeria had always been proud of who she was. Of where she came from. She’d never had any reason not to be.

She and Arianne were famed beauties, although Arianne was more classically beautiful than she ever would be, and even her cousins joined them in that aspect.

But here…she was out of place. No one would look like her and the further north she went, the more she would stand out.

“Are you ready princess?” Areo Hotah’s deep rumble shook her from her thoughts, the Captain of the Guard towering over her, his bald head shining in what little sunlight streamed through the clouds.

Nymeria chided herself. If she felt out of place she couldn’t imagine how Areo was feeling. He was darker than her, with a mother from Norvos. His rich umber skin may have been common among the sand dunes and summery isles of Dorne, but here he was a reminder that there were more people out there. That Westeros wasn’t the only continent in the world.

Nymeria swung herself over her black steed, settling on her saddle as she grabbed ahold ofPhoenix’s reins, turning toward Areo as she nodded, making their way through the Seal Gate and into the inner walls of the city. They passed through a square almost immediately, merchants and smallfolk alike pausing as Areo and Nymeria rode through, the latter keeping her head up high, trying not to let the stares get to her.

She could practically hear them whispering, her back prickling at the thought. She forced herself to look at the fountain in the middle of the square, a stone merman brandishing a trident in his hands, staring intensely at any passerby.

Nymeria shrunk under the stone creature’s gaze, the lichen-covered beard doing nothing to calm her nerves, only making the statue more intimidating.

She forced herself to stand tall as they passed the women washing small clothes in the fountain, the children selling milk and street merchants attempting to sell their wares at a cheap price.

It was much livelier than Shadow City and much brighter. Nymeria shook that thought away. It would do no good to think of Dorne now. She dug her heel into Phoenix’s side and spurred the horse on, their pace quickening into a gallop as they found themselves weaving through the alleyways and streets of White Harbor, wanting to get to Winterfell as quickly as possible.

**JON SNOW**

His face itched. He hated having to get all pretty for the king and his men, especially since he wasn’t going to be allowed to dine with them in the first place. He couldn’t wait for Uncle Benjen to return. To take him to the wall. To leave all of this behind and make a name for himself besides being the bastard who sullied Ned Stark’s honorable reputation.

Jon had been standing outside for what seemed like hours, waiting patiently for the King to arrive with his company, trumpets bellowing as the party began to show.

“Where’s Arya?” Lady Catelyn asked, sharp gaze scanning the horizon before turning to her eldest daughter, “Sansa, where’s your sister?”

The redhead shrugged, clearly not caring about the younger girl’s whereabouts. Jon resisted the urge to scoff. While he had nothing against her, Sansa was the spitting image of the woman who hated him, and he had never gotten along with her as well as he had with the rest of them.

His head snapped up when he heard panting, a small body wearing a guard helmet running past Father, stopping before entering the lineup.

Jon smirked when he caught sight of his little sister, her face red from her excursion, a wide smile across her face as Father removed the helmet and lightly shoved her into the lineup.

“Move!” Arya commanded, pushing Bran further down and squeezing next to Sansa.

An eery quiet fell over the courtyard as several horses bearing the royal sigil began to circle, lining up to allow the giant wheelhouse to appear, soon followed by several Kingsguard and the King himself. Jon fell to his knee immediately. Not that long ago he would’ve entertained the idea of becoming a member of the Kingsguard, back when he still believed he could’ve been Aemon the Dragonknight, and not a lowly bastard who no one would miss.

His knee was beginning to ache by the time King Robert urged them upward.

"Your Grace,” Father spoke reverently, as if he and King Robert had never been friends in the first place.

The King stared at his old friend, in a way that made Jon rather nervous, and he shifted slightly in his position, trying not to move too much in case he offended the king. As a result, he missed the next few words that were exchanged, and instead watched as he embraced Father and Lady Catelyn, a hearty laugh leaving him and a wide smile on his face.

“Nine years…” King Robert mused, shaking his head. “Why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”

He asked like it was an obvious question with an obvious answer. Like Robert was any old lord who could come and go as he pleased instead of the King of the realm.

Jon’s father clearly felt the same way, gesturing toward Winterfell slightly, “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace.” They shook hands once more, smiles all around, “Winterfell is yours.”

* * *

Jon found himself in the courtyard after the King’s arrival, practicing his swing on one of the dummies Jory had set up earlier. It was the only way he could distract himself. He knew Lady Catelyn would rather him outside than be anywhere near the Royal Family, so here he was. Trying to prove himself while the Royal Household unpacked around him, Father and King Robert in the crypts visiting his aunt.

Jon briefly wondered if his mother was buried there before shaking the thought away. His mother wasn’t a Stark. She was a southerner and would be buried nowhere near Winterfell.

He used to see her in his dreams. A wild woman with dark curls and grey eyes like his. They would live far away from Winterfell, perhaps across the Narrow Sea, where nobody looked twice at an unwed mother and a bastard child.

When rumors spread that Ashara Dayne of Starfall could have been his mother the dream changed entirely. Grey turned to violet, and Jon was living under the blistering desert sun, trained by the Sword of the Morning himself. He would have squired for a man like Ser Barristan, earning a title and becoming revered as a knight instead of spat at.

But then Lady Catelyn had caused all of that to come crashing down.

On a day she was feeling particularly hateful, she spat out the truth. That his mother wasn’t a highborn lady or the grey-eyed woman, but his wet-nurse.

A dornish woman named Wylla.

And the dreams had stopped.

The steel whacked unceremoniously against the stack of hay and burlap tied to a stick, a dull thud heard through the main courtyard before he sheathed the sword, the pitter-patter of horse hooves drawing him out of his thoughts. As he placed the weapon back in the armory, murmuring began to erupt around him, and Jon finally turned around, curious about what had sparked such sudden conversation. When he pushed past some of the crowd toward the South Gate, he froze, mouth dropping open in shock as he caught sight of Winterfell’s newest visitor.

“ _She looks just like her…what are they doing all the way up here?….their kind don’t belong here…_ ”

The woman atop the horse held her head high, russet eyes narrowing at the castle before her, as if scanning for potential weaknesses. Her ebony curls cascaded just below her breast, part of it braided back out of her face. Her bronze skin made her a novelty among the fair population of the north, and Jon knew exactly where she was from.

A Dornishwoman this far north was unheard of. His eyes drifted to the men who were accompanying her. They were just as strange.

One of them wore a bright yellow tunic with a halberd strapped to his back, face unchanging as his eyes scanned the courtyard, his swarthy skin reminding Jon of the trunks of trees in the Wolfswood.

He had never seen Dornishmen before. And they looked very different than he expected. Most of the men held the same salty look that the woman possessed, but Jon thought he spotted a few pale faces scattered among the retinue. The woman huffed, flicking the reins and moving closer to the center of the Courtyard, exactly where Jon was standing. She stared down at him, brown meeting grey for the first time.

His mother was dornish, he told himself. Whether she was Ashara Dayne or Wylla or the grey-eyed woman, she was dornish. And he himself had been born in the desert.

Lord Stark had told him so on his tenth name day.

Perhaps this woman knew his mother. Even if she looked similar in age to Jon, he still held out hope.

“Where’s Lord Stark?” She asked, her accent only cementing her identity as an outsider. To most of the north, her words would sound slurred, hard to understand. But the Starks were highborn. They had encountered men and women from the Free Cities, however rare it had been.

From the look of her retinue and the fine threads of silk and leather woven through her tunic, Jon guessed she was highborn. Probably a Martell or a Dayne. Which meant that she was expecting his father, and not his bastard.

“He is in the crypts my lady,” Jon explained, placing his hands behind his back, trying to recall his manners, “Lord Stark and King Robert went to pay their respects.”

The sound of steel being unsheathed rang in Jon’s ears and he found the point of a halberd aimed directly at his throat, the dark-skinned man’s narrowed gaze trained on him.

“You will address the Princess of Dorne properly, she is not one of your common ladies.” The man’s accent was thicker than the woman’s and much scarier. Jon’s eyes widened at the information he was just given. The Princess of Dorne?

The newly revealed royal held up her hand, “Peace Areo,” She requested, dismounting from her horse, “We can forgive the northerners lack of manners,” she smirked, boots crashing into the dirt, “After all, it appears their Lord had no intention of informing them of our arrival.”

Jon bristled at the veiled insult, not taking kindly to her callous observations. The Princess smiled sweetly, “You must be Jon Snow,” She observed, a glint in her gaze as she eyed him up and down like a wolf catching sight of its prey.

“I’m afraid so Your Highness,” He corrected himself, the halberd lowering at the correct moniker, Jon’s heartbeat slowing down as his nerves calmed.

The Princess swept her eyes over Winterfell, drinking in the castle as she wrapped the reins around her hand, no doubt waiting for Robert and Father to finish their journey to the crypts. Jon however, turned to Hodor, asking the stable boy to take care of their horses. The bumbling man nodded, eagerly pressing forward to escort the Princess’s horse to the stable a few paces away. Even if the family was busy making sure the royal family was seen to, at least Jon could be hospitable. They had traveled a great distance after all.

It almost made him feel like the Lord of Winterfell, an observation that burned in the bottom of his stomach. He would never be the Lord of Winterfell. Lady Catelyn would use her last dying breath to make sure of it.

 _Hold no lands, father no children._ That was what he was going to promise whenever Benjen came back. When he took him to the Wall.

The man with the halberd stood at attention, his neutral expression sliding back over his face.

When everything was taken away, Jon suddenly realized just how short the princess was. She barely reached his shoulder, and she looked absolutely dwarfed by the men who surrounded her.

He never would have guessed her to be a princess from the clothes she was wearing. The breeches threw him off guard completely. The same violet color as her tunic, they hid nothing, showcasing her figure in a manner Jon had scarcely seen before. He felt heat rise to his cheeks at the thought, and tore his eyes away as quickly as he could. The tunic was the exact same way, except with a covering around her neck, no doubt to keep her warm amongst the frozen winds of Winterfell.

She was back to eyeing him, a slight smirk on her face as she traded words with the man she had called off, no doubt furious with their welcome. Jon was at a loss of what to do. He could escort them in, but he wasn’t the lord, he’d never be the lord. And if he remembered correctly, Lannisters and Martells did not get along after the Rebellion.

Neither did Robert and the Martells.

Jon gulped, suddenly realizing the situation the Starks had been put in. They were to be peacemakers between the two houses. Nothing would get done as long as the Royal Household and the Martells lived under the same roof.

Jon had never felt bad for Lady Catelyn before, but this certainly came close.

“How was your journey?” He settled on asking them questions, trying to pass the time until his father appeared.

The Princess smirked and moved away from her guard to answer the question, “Long.” She settled on, something dancing in her gaze, “But the scenery was worth it.” She stared directly at him as she said that, and Jon suddenly felt his jerkin tighten, body warming.

Thankfully the doors to the crypt opened, and the Princess turned around, straightening up as she caught sight of Lord Stark.

Jon didn’t miss the way her body tensed as the King came into view, both men carrying a somber air about them. Despite that they were smiling, an expression which quickly died when Father saw the Princess of Dorne standing in his courtyard, welcomed by only his bastard.

“Princess Nymeria,” Father called, abandoning Robert by the crypts and grasping her hand in a show of peace, “My deepest apologies for being unable to welcome you. We didn’t anticipate your arrival this early.”  
Nymeria plastered another sweet smile on her face, although Jon had the feeling that it wasn’t quite genuine. “Lord Stark, Prince Doran thanks you for your generosity, and Prince Oberyn sends his regards.”

Father nodded, and before he could say anything else, a rough voice cut him off.

“Well, what have we here?” King Robert asked, eyeing the retinue warily before catching sight of the Princess before him.

Father turned toward his friend and gestured to Nymeria, “Princess Nymeria of House Martell, your grace.”

The woman gave a stiff curtsey, although Jon noticed that the man with the halberd did not follow suit like the rest of the guards. Robert eyed her, as if trying to recall who she was.

“You’re her daughter aren’t you?” He asked, a dark tone entering his voice.

Nymeria held her ground, “I am your grace,” Jon noticed how she practically spat out the last couple words, “And you’re the King of the Seven Kingdoms. My expectations should have been lower.”

A pause hung in the air between the two royals, and Jon and his father stood between it all, waiting for Robert’s next move. His blue eyes narrowed slightly, but the woman refused to back down.

And then laughter broke out of the man, similar to when he had met Father that morning. King Robert slapped the Princess’s shoulder, a gesture that caused the knight beside her to tighten his grip on the halberd, and Nymeria to stiffen.

“I’d forgotten how much fun Dornishwomen could be,” A gleam formed in his eye as he turned toward Father, “Turns out you have more uses than being good in bed, perhaps my son should marry you instead,”

Jon watched Nymeria’s lips tighten at the King’s insult, and he couldn’t blame her. Jon himself was uncomfortable by the insinuation and he hadn’t even been insulted. “Oh I don’t think that’s such a good idea, your grace,” Nymeria spat back.

Robert’s laughing ceased as he turned back toward her, “Oh? Why’s that?”  
Jon watched the Princess smirk, something twinkling in her eye as she refused to look away from the King’s gaze, “We don’t want a repeat of the last time a Martell and a Stark fought over a prince do we?”

Robert went silent, his smile dying.

The air between them turned frosty at her words and Lord Stark coughed, trying to move on from the accusation, gesturing toward the Great Hall. “Please follow me, I’m sure you’re anxious to get settled in.”

Nymeria nodded gratefully, her smile never wavering as she and her retinue moved into Winterfell, Jon and his father following close behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick sidenote: I know in both the Books and TV show, Catelyn has no idea who Jon's mom is (and that's still the case) but I assume she probably lashed out a couple times to take him down a few pegs, so she used the common story that was circulated around. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> Please leave kudos and a comment if you did!


	3. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nymeria and Jon talk and Bran climbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! It's me, and we're finally starting to get into things!
> 
> Bran's POV was so much fun to write this chapter, especially because I loved writing that scene from a new perspective and I also loved how George wrote it in the books. Sorry if you wanted more out of the Winterfell scenes, I just thought that it would slow the pacing down a bit and I didn't want to take that chance.
> 
> Reviews have been absolutely fantastic! And I can't believe how many of you are following this story! It makes me so happy and all the love you're giving this story is warming my heart! I hope I can repay it.

* * *

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

She twirled one of her daggers in her hands, imagining it flying straight at the Queen's head, impaling her to her chair.

The thought made Nymeria smile, and helped soothed some of the irritation that had been building in her since their welcome. She scoffed inwardly. It didn't deserve that moniker. It was a hurried peace attempt at best. A way to usher the Martells and their household into Winterfell before they could encounter any Lannisters.

It was no secret there was no love between the two houses, even less so since the Baratheons took the throne. They had murdered Elia, murdered her children, and never showed any sign of remorse. And here Nymeria was, inches away from the Queen and her children.

With one sleight of hand, she could slip one of Oberyn's deadly poisons into their cups and they'd all be dead by morning.

Instead, she was breaking bread with them, trapped by Guest Right. And she remembered how well that had gone for the Rat Cook.

A story she had been told by one of the Northmen as he escorted them to their side of Winterfell, far away from the Lannisters. No doubt it was a warning of some kind. A barbaric tale that encouraged young children to hold their honor.

But there was no honor in killing and raping an unarmed woman and her children.

Nymeria bristled, the laughter of the northerners echoing in her mind, unable to take the merry atmosphere anymore. Since her stay at Winterfell, she had been insulted in more ways than one. The King's words still lived in her skin, scratching the itch to take him out as well for claiming that her culture was good for little else other than providing pleasure in bed.

The Dornish were proud. They had evaded three hundred years of conquest, only entering the realm through marriage. She was a Princess of Dorne, but here she had been treated less than a common woman.

Ignored in favor of paler beauties, horribly received by her host, and dining her with her enemies.

Oberyn wouldn't have stood for it. But he wasn't here. Everyone she loved was back home, relishing in the burning sun and shifting sands. With the crashing waters of the Summer Sea at their backs and the finest wine in the realm at their disposal.

And she was here. Shivering down to her toes and downing cheap ale to try and calm the temper within her.

Thankfully Areo seemed just as displeased as she was. Although she was unsure if there was anything Areo actually enjoyed except service.

She'd be patient. She'd play the part Doran needed her to play. But one wrong move, one reason to suspect the crown was coming for her house?

Then that would die, and she'd make sure they'd pay.

Her throat constricted, and she felt herself grow hot. The crowds were finally getting to her. Why did the Starks insist on accommodating everyone in their household? Especially in such incredibly close quarters?  
Her breathing grew shallower until it was reaching her ears, the quiet sound drowned out by drunken laughter and tavern songs that were bellowed at the top of the northerner's lungs.

She needed air.

Nodding to Areo, the guard released her, granting Nymeria a few minutes alone as she snuck out, colliding into something solid.

"Forgive me," The figure spoke up, his voice deep and his coloring resembling Lord Stark's.

"There's nothing to forgive," Nymeria lied smoothly. She held no quarrel with the North except a slight to her mother, and they were only words.

After all, words were wind.

The figure tilted his head and Nymeria waited a moment, watching as he embraced Lord Stark with a wide smile on his face, the brotherly embrace causing her chest to constrict.

She whirled around, moving down the torchlit hall until she reached a wooden door, pushing it open and breathing in the cool air. It slithered through her lungs, almost burning them. She almost thought she could smell the cold.

In the Great Hall, she felt as if she was choking. Surrounded by Lions and Wolves and Stags, all vulnerable animals to a Viper.

But she was vulnerable too.

Oberyn wasn't here.

Arianne wasn't here.

Obara and Tyene weren't here.

Her mother wasn't here.

She missed Dorne. She missed the hot desert winds and the perpetual sweat on her back. She missed the clang of steel against steel. The thrill of a good spar, the citrus fruits and wine, lounging on the smooth shores of the Broken Arm, jumping from whatever cliffs she could find. Usually with Arianne leading the way.

When she closed her eyes she thought she could will herself back there. That it would all be some horrible dream she would wake up from. And she would be back in her bed, Tyene and Obara waking her up at dawn to spar.

But it wasn't a dream.

Here there were no beaches. There were no citrus fruits or jumping from cliffs.

It was only cold.

Only snow.

_Clang! Clang!_

A distant thump pulled her out of her thoughts, and she peered around the corner, boots crunching against frozen grass, almost making her jump at the sound.

It was the bastard. The pretty one who had greeted her earlier.

And he was pretty. With his dark curls and grey doe-eyes, she finally understood her cousin's desire for deflowering pretty boys.

And he was exactly Arianne's type. Maybe not politically with no title or knighthood to speak of, but his features would have made her cousin go weak in the knees.

They certainly were working on Nymeria.

Taking great care to silence her steps, she leaned against the pole of the stable, watching the bastard hack at the dummy, not caring about his strokes or his form.

He was angry.

He needed to let it out.

She knew the feeling.

Nymeria didn't know what drew her to him. Maybe it was his pretty face. Or the way he had been quick to correct himself when they met. Or maybe it was his anger.

Whatever it was, it was enough to push her forward, leaning against the training pen, the wood digging into her shoulder blade as she watched him pant, sweat forming on his brow, sword ready to swing.

"Let me guess," Nymeria spoke up, a smirk crossing her face, her shield against the world, "He insulted your honor,"

The bastard froze, his sword hanging in the air as he furrowed his brow. She pointed her head at the dummy, and he dropped the sword to his side, eyes widening as he realized who he was talking to.

Who was watching him.

"My Princess, I didn't mean—"

"Please don't apologize," She cut him off, anger rumbling in her chest, "I've had enough for one day."

Jon Snow simply nodded and moved to put the sword away. "Why aren't you inside?" He asked, still not facing her. "I thought you would be enjoying the feast,"

Nymeria scoffed, shaking her head, "I don't want to spend any more time with the King and Queen than I have to."

A chuckle left the bastard's lips, and she could almost imagine his grey eyes brightening up. It made her smile. Something she hadn't done since leaving Dorne.

As he continued to shuffle the position of the armory, Nymeria raised her eyes toward the fortress she would be living in until Doran ordered her home.

The towering walls and watchtowers held no warmth. They were lonely, chilly beings that refused to budge, as strong and stubborn as the Lord within its halls.

Even the slight drifting snow felt as if it was the only thing that was moving before being engulfed by the darkness that surrounded them.

There was no light in the North.

"Winterfell looks so…cold." She spoke up, eyebrows furrowed at the castle, meaning every word of it. The bastard turned around, forehead creased as if trying to decipher her words, "I can't imagine what it must have been like to grow up here."

Jon chuckled slightly, leaning against the other side of the pen, staring up at his home with a nervous smile on his face.

"Much colder than Dorne Your Highness," Jon answered, staring back at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Something about his grey eyes relaxed her. "But I wouldn't have traded it for anything else," He stared up at his home once again, smile easing as his nerves dissipated, "It's my home, princess, nothing can change that."

Nymeria nodded, fully understanding the feeling. Despite her circumstances, Sunspear was as much her home as it was Arianne's. They would rule it together one day.

Arianne as Princess and Nymeria as her advisor. Much like Doran and Oberyn. Quentyn and Trystane weren't that happy about it, but perhaps they should have paid more attention in lessons.

"Did your mother live in Winterfell with you?" Nymeria wanted to take back the question as soon as she asked it. Not only had Jon's relaxed expression tighten into something sterner, but she herself had forgotten that she was not in Dorne anymore.

Paramours did not exist in the North the way they did in the south. Bastards were frowned upon and not celebrated.

Here Jon would have no rights. His best bet would be to squire for a noble house and become a knight, or to travel to Essos in the hopes of becoming a sellsword.

Neither of which seemed to suit him all that well.

"I never knew my mother," Jon bristled, his words as cold as she felt, "All I know is that she was a dornish wet-nurse. That I was born in the south."

Nymeria perked up at that. His mother was dornish? If he hadn't looked so pained when he said the words, she would have called him a liar.

There was nothing dornish in his coloring or his temperament. He was fully northern. If his mother was from Dorne, she left nothing of her in him.

"I'm so sorry," Nymeria apologized, guilt clawing at her stomach for even asking the question in the first place, "I never knew my mother either, or my father." She confided, hoping to remedy her mistake before it got out of hand, "They were ghosts before I could walk."

Jon's eyes softened in sympathy, and she soon found herself under his gaze. It was almost as if he was scanning her, whether it was for weaknesses or due to curiosity she couldn't say.

But there was sort of gleam in those sad grey eyes. They begged to be understood, the same way Nymeria had when she was younger. Before she had been legitimized and recognized as a Princess of Dorne.

Before she had truly been accepted by her Uncles as more than a reminder of their dead sister. Her dead mother.

Jon Snow held no other wish than to be loved, Nymeria was confident of that.

"Perhaps they knew each other," Jon smiled tightly, referring to the two dead women who had sired them. Nymeria doubted it. Even if his mother had been some highborn lady at court, Elia had been hidden in the red keep since she had been wed.

There was no way they could have met.

But when she saw the brightening in his solemn face, the hopeful look he possessed, something tugged at her chest, asking her to spare his feelings.

She listened to it.

"Perhaps." Her lips twisted upward, nodding as she moved to leave toward her chambers, catching sight of an irritated Areo leaving the hall, his eyes narrowed at the two of them.

The Guard had been wary of the bastard since their awful welcome, but he was wary of everything these days. Nymeria could not see any harm in getting to know the boy, especially since it seemed no one else was taking an interest in her.

Sensing Areo's lingering gaze on her, Nymeria straightened, slightly bowing her head.

"Goodnight Jon Snow," She spoke gently, leaving the bastard to his thoughts as she turned to meet up with her retinue. She froze when he called after her, a small smile gracing his face.

"Goodnight princess," he returned the favor, eyes scanning her up and down before flitting back to his sword as Nymeria sauntered away, a smirk written across her face as Areo began to escort her to her chambers.

"I do not trust him, my princess," He confided when they were back in their wing of Winterfell, far away from the Lannisters and Baratheons. To minimize the damage, she suspected.

Nymeria rolled her eyes, "The same way you don't trust Obara?"

Areo shuffled his feet but his head remained high. Nymeria sighed and wished the guard goodnight, knowing that he wouldn't budge on anything. Before she shut the door she whirled around to face Areo once again. "Try not to frighten him too much," She requested.

Areo only shrugged, "No promises little one,"

She chuckled at that, knowing that despite what he thought, Areo would listen to her. And Jon Snow did not deserve to be frightened.

The bastard of Winterfell didn't leave her thoughts until she snuck under the covers that night, something lifting off her shoulders as she recalled their conversation.

Jon Snow, she decided, made the North a little bit more bearable.

**BRAN STARK**

The walls of Winterfell were this favorite playground. The wolf trotted after him, like his mother did when she thought he was going to do something stupid. But he was just climbing.

There was not much harm in climbing. Not when he knew every brick of the home he lived in.

Not when he was sure of each of his steps.

Climbing might come in handy in the south. It might come in handy as a knight. He wanted to shout for joy when his father had told him the news. He was to be a knight, just like he wanted.

He could never be Lord of Winterfell, so his father would grant him the one thing he wanted most in this world. A chance to be a true knight. A man of honor like Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy.

They'd call him Bran the Surefooted, because he would know every step he would take and where it would lead. Plus it sounded much better than Bran the Small or Bran the Meek.

Jon and Robb had taunted him with those titles for years. Since he had first confided his wish to them. Bran still wasn't sure whether he regretted the decision or not.

He raced over the thin rooftop of the castle, following his feet until it led to the base of the Broken Tower, Bran's blood racing as he grabbed hold of the small ledges, a burst of pride puffing in his chest every time he managed to climb past one of them. He stared down at the courtyard of Winterfell. His dire wolf was still growing but he looked as if he was a puppy again, and in the sparring yard, he heard the sound of steel against steel. Bran squinted, a braided head of dark curls going head to head with a bald man with a halberd. Live steel. Not training swords.

It was the Martell Princess and her guard. She would never be a knight but she fought like one. Although something tugged at Bran's lips, and he briefly recalled his lessons with Maester Luwin.

 _Poison is a weapon of a snake,_ the elderly man had taught him, _there is no honor in such a weapon._

Honor. Father had plenty of it, as did Jon and Robb. Had Bran inherited any of it? He supposed he wasn't old enough to know. He was only a boy of ten and he had a long way to go before he ever joined the likes of them.

He hoped the trip south would help. His arms were growing tired and the sun had started to appear in the sky behind the clouds. The midday meal would be served soon and Mother would be furious if he didn't show. A faint bark drew his gaze downward again, and Bran's Direwolf was standing, wagging its tail at the sight of his owner high above the ground, unable to be protected.

Bran sighed and climbed up one more ledge. He really should name the poor thing soon. It was terrible, calling the animal "puppy" and "wolfie" when he had been unable to come up with anything else.

All his siblings had such fitting names, except for Rickon, but Bran could hardly blame his younger brother, who was just learning to read instead of hearing stories from Old Nan. Bran didn't want to feel inadequate compared to his siblings. He didn't want to look like a fool. All the names that rang through his head were silly, and the ones Bran did like didn't seem to fit the light-haired beast. Bran felt his hand slip slightly as the wolf barked once again. Uttering a curse he had heard Jon use, Bran decided that he could climb the broken tower later. Mother would be furious anyway, and even the sound of steel was starting to die down. Bran lifted his eyes up to his prize, the window only a few feet away. But he was so close.

A raven flew onto the ledge of the open window, its caw almost taunting Bran, daring him to take the next step and claim his victory.

He gave in.

One step, then another, his arms aching as he hoisted himself up onto the last ledge, scooting slightly so he had better footing on the edge of the window, able to climb in if anything happened.

He didn't expect to see anyone else up here with him. A man and woman were currently inhabiting the lonely building, sounds he had once heard his mother and father utter in private being shared publicly. Bran went red at the memory. The woman's skirts were hiked high above her waist, and the man stood behind her, moving every once in a while.

But they looked familiar. And he couldn't recall seeing anyone with that coloring this far north until…suddenly realizing that he was watching something that he probably shouldn't, Bran attempted to scurry down, his foot slipping, rocks tumbling down the side of the tower, threatening to take the boy with it.

He felt himself pulled back into the window, a large hand grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Bran's blue eyes met green, and there was a smile. A brief expression coming from the Kingsguard. He and the woman were discussing something, but Bran's heart drowned out any words they were discussing.

He shouldn't have continued. He should have listened to his wolf. He should have listened to Mother.

Instead, he had caught the Queen and her brother in a position they definitely should not have been in, and he was paying for it.

Gods, curse his curiosity. It had always gotten the better of him.

The words passed back and forth again until the Queen's brother met Bran's gaze once again, his smile sharp like the knives the Martell Princess bore, and when the Queen's brother turned back toward the golden-haired woman, Bran heard his words as clear as day.

"The things I do for love"

And Bran flew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit. Unfortunately, Bran does have to fall, but I LOVED writing that scene so much.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you're enjoying the stories and I'd love to hear your theories!


	4. The Night is Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nymeria faces off against Queen Cersei and says goodbye to Jon. Ned reminisces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is mostly filler, but I love Nymeria's conversations with Cersei and Arya so much. And the Ned addition was so much later, but I'm so happy I inserted it! Especially because we don't really spend much time down south in this fic.
> 
> Before anyone asks: this is a mesh of Book and Show canon, so parts that I liked in the books that I wanted to see in the show will pop up here, as well as show events and characters. 
> 
> The line Catelyn says to Jon? It's in the books. As for Ned, I can't remember if we ever get his perspective on the Martells other than Elia.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the reviews and the kudos! It keeps me motivated to keep writing this!

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

It was cruel, what had happened to the Stark boy. Barely ten and fallen from a tower. Potentially dead.

Although Nymeria suspected that there was more behind it. A fall like that could kill and she was almost certain she had seen the Lady Lannister lingering near the tower later that night.

It wouldn’t be the first time a Lannister had murdered a child to keep their power.

She sharpened her daggers one by one, the gesture helping soothe the hot-blooded anger in her. Dornish were hot-blooded by nature, and while her mother may not have had it, Nymeria certainly did.

She was convinced it came from Uncle Oberyn. That somehow he had snuck in a bit of himself when she was made.

Nymeria wasn’t nearly as bad as Arianne or the Sand Snakes though. She suspected that’s why Doran was so harsh with her. He didn’t have anyone else he could temper. Arianne inherited Doran’s intelligence with words, but Nymeria was patient. She could wait out her enemies, endure and survive until they tired.

And that, she told herself, was the only reason she wasn’t challenging the Lannisters to an open fight in the courtyard of Winterfell.

That and Tywin Lannister would lay waste to Dorne if he caught wind of anything. The Rains of Castamere come again.

That was the only thing the Lannisters and Martells had in common. The lengths they would go to protect and avenge their family.

But Elia’s death hadn’t been avenged. Her cousin’s deaths hadn’t been avenged. Arthur Dayne’s death hadn’t been avenged.

Instead, Doran was content to sit around and wait for something to happen, when it had been proven time and time again that was ineffective.

He had ordered her to stay in the North, close to the bastard she had become intrigued by. What for? What possible part could this play in his plan? Doran said little in his letter, only to tell her the intel was good and they would be making their move sooner than expected. But there had been nothing about his own plans, still keeping up the facade of trading her off in a marriage.

He had been good at that. Arranging powerful marriages. Is that why he wanted her up north? To stay close to Robb and the Starks in case his other plan fell through? To make sure she was in good standing with the North if Doran needed a powerful marriage? Even when she held a higher title than Robb Stark ever would?

She’d rather be joining Jon Snow at the wall. The few conversations she’d held with the boy had been intriguing, and the more she learned the more she wanted to know.

His mother was dornish yet there was no dornish in him, he claimed to be born in the south but was more northern than his brothers and sisters, and his inane sense of honor seemed to be intact, with no sense of tarnishing it anytime soon.

She wouldn’t mind traveling further north with him, even if the climate bugged her to no end. The howling winds were much kinder than the ones near the Red Mountains, but they still whipped her skin dry and froze her fingers. If she was to stay in the North she would need warmer clothes than what she had been currently wearing.

She felt a small shadow over her and Nymeria lifted her eyes, arching an eyebrow as she caught sight of the youngest daughter, her grey eyes wide in awe as she stared at her.

“It is true you’re named after the Queen?” The girl asked, awe replaced with curiosity. Her wolf fidgeted next to her, just as restless as her owner. Nymeria would be lying if she said she wasn’t jealous. The symbol of their house, living and breathing at their sides.

“I am,” Nymeria answered the girl, a wicked smile crossing her face, “My mother loved the story of Nymeria, and she wanted me to grow up to be strong like her.”

Arya smiled back, a wide and wild thing that struggled to hold back her nature. It was oddly reminiscent of Nymeria and Arianne’s favorite cousin, Tyene.

“I named my wolf Nymeria,” Arya spoke plainly, scratching the ears of the animal, which barked, as if proud to bear the name. The girl held a hunger in her eyes, and Nymeria didn’t miss the way she eyed the daggers in her hands.

Nymeria flipped one over, hilt facing the younger girl in a silent invitation. Arya’s gaze flickered to the dagger before grasping the hilt in her hand, twirling the weapon as if she had discovered gold for the first time.

“I won’t teach you much,” Nymeria announced, standing up and facing the young girl, “But I can teach you how to strike.” She took her stance, sliding a smaller knife out of the compartment in her tunic, raising the smaller weapon in front of her face. It drew her opponent’s attention upward, and soon they forgot all about the other dagger she was holding in her hand. It was her defense, and she would be able to deflect any blows that came her way.

Arya mimicked her stance, looking out of place with a bare fist above her forehead where the other dagger should be.

Nymeria smirked. “Your weapon is an extension of your arm,” She explained, showcasing how smooth her strokes were, “No matter dagger, sword, spear. A blade is always part of you.” Oberyn’s words poured from her mouth, recalling her early lessons with Obara. They had only been children, and Oberyn was fashioning them into weapons. She had been younger than the Stark girl was now, but her lessons had never left her.

“Keep your distance,” Nymeria continued, “Especially if your opponent has a much longer weapon, chances are they’re compensating for something,” Her jape earned a smile from Arya’s face, who continued to copy her movements like a cat, “When you get an opening…” Nymeria’s words drifted, weapon switching into her opposite hand, her other dagger nowhere to be seen. Soon the smaller blade was resting nicely on the girl’s rib cage, and with one jab she would be dead at her feet, “That is when you strike.”

Arya trembled slightly, although her face betrayed nothing of fear. Instead, she was filled with a sense of curiosity, which was reflected in her glinting gaze, “How will I know where to strike?”

Nymeria smirked and dropped her guard, thankful for the honor of Northerners, especially as Arya handed her dagger back to her. Tracing her hands on Arya’s skin, she recalled the seven weak spots her father had taught her when it came to stabbing. “There are seven places you must aim for, much like our new gods,” Nymeria explained, almost repeating Oberyn’s words verbatim, “The spinal cord is the surest way to ensure death, but it is the hardest to access. Your blade must be flat, inserted between the two discs in the neck,” Nymeria tapped the exact spot on the back of Arya’s neck, the girl jumping slightly as she did,

“Once you strike there your opponent is rendered physically useless, unable to move.” Nymeria moved her hands to Arya’s carotid, carefully explaining each role as her delicate hands moved over the petite girl’s body, squeezing the arteries just enough to make sure the girl remembered each different spot, “The final spot is here,” Nymeria gestured, hand over her own heart,

“But like the spinal cord, it is difficult to strike, especially if one has armor. But a sure strike through the ribs will do the trick, and should puncture the lung as well.”  
Arya’s fascination only grew with each lesson, and soon she was tracing the spots herself, hand resting on her throat.

The girl moved to say something but was cut off by a loud retort, “Ah teaching young children to murder,” Tyrion Lannister japed, a half-drunken smirk written across his face as he stared up at the Princess, “I see the dornish ways never change.”

“Neither do the Lannisters,” Nymeria responded, and Tyrion narrowed his eyes at her veiled comment. But she had learned from the best, and while Tyrion was witty, Doran was better. “Besides why shouldn’t she learn? She may need it in the capital,” Nymeria continued, her vitriol for the family barely concealing itself at this point.

While she was only a few inches taller than the dwarf, her presence alone had ruined any safety net the Lannisters were hiding behind.

Who better than the daughter of the woman they murdered to remind them that they weren’t untouchable? That with one swift move Nymeria could decimate their entire house the way they had hers?

She narrowed her eyes at the dwarf once more, hand twirling the knife Arya had handed back to her, “After all, King’s Landing is rather well known for hurting little girls.”

Tyrion’s body tensed at the veiled reference. It was a reminder. Like the Rains of Castamere. A reminder that Lannisters weren’t the only ones who paid their debts.

Sending her a tight smile, Tyrion bowed respectfully, “Excuse me, my lady, I’m afraid I have much to attend to before my journey north,”

Nymeria’s eyes never left his retreating form, not until he slunk into the shadows of the Great Hall of Winterfell, his head hung low.

Her dark gaze turned back to the girl before her, who had heard every word. “What do you mean?” Arya asked, awe and curiosity replaced with concealed fear, “About King’s Landing hurting little girls?”

Nymeria straightened, something clawing at the inside of her gut, a feeling she slowly recognized as shame. Shame for exposing a young girl to harsh truths too early in life. Shame for revealing her greatest card to the daughter of the man who killed her father. Nymeria sheathed her dagger, shoving the feeling away.

Arya may be young but she would learn these truths anyway. And it was better that she and her sister were forewarned of the atrocities that awaited them.

But she could barely form the words.

Every time she tried her throat constricted, a familiar dull numbness crawling across her chest until it reached her heart, burning through the organ, hands clenching into fists before releasing the tension in one deep breath, uncurling her fists.

“Remember what I’ve taught you, and you won’t have to ever worry about it,” Nymeria said instead.

Arya nodded and scampered off, no doubt to finish packing before heading south. Nymeria smiled at the young girl’s retreating figure and sheathed her other knife, adjusting the scabbard before a head of blonde hair obscured her gaze.

“Princess Nymeria,” Cersei said, her nose slightly upturned, as if she had smelled something awful. Nymeria had seen that look on many faces outside of Dorne. She had seen it on the faces of the Northern Houses and small folk as well. No doubt Aerys wore the same look when Rhaenys was born.

“Queen Cersei,” She had to force herself to use the correct title, anger bubbling in her chest each time she did, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I only came to wish you luck,” Cersei remarked, hands laced together over her stomach as she stared at Winterfell with the same look of disgust she gave Nymeria, “Robb Stark is very lucky to have snatched you up.”

Suddenly remembering the story that had been circulated about her arrival, Nymeria hid the initial sense of confusion she felt as she plastered a soft smile on her face, playing the role of a blushing bride-to-be. “Yes, I am very fortunate that Lord Stark decided to accept the offer,”

“You’re quite fortunate in a lot of aspects,” Cersei’s tone shifted into something more confrontational, and Nymeria steeled herself, “A bastard legitimized by the man who smiled over your mother’s dead body.”

Her smile dropped, and Nymeria bit the inside of her cheek, refusing the blatant bait Cersei was dangling in front of her.

“King Robert is very generous,” She lied, forcing herself to imagine the Queen’s pale face before her, the heads of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch beside it.

Cersei chuckled mirthlessly, “Of course he is. It’s a shame you won’t be accompanying us, Myrcella is quite interested in your culture, whatever it may be.”

Nymeria shrugged off the insult and straightened, holding her head up high. “We have plenty to offer should the Princess ever need a respite,” Nymeria replied, a small victory dancing in her chest as Cersei’s expression fell. She was a Princess of Dorne, and Cersei Lannister did not frighten her.

The blonde woman threw another look at Winterfell, “How thoughtful of you. I suppose you need time to get acquainted with your new surroundings,” Cersei smiled tightly, the gesture as hollow as her cheekbones, “I imagine it’s quite jarring, going from a sunny kingdom to a frozen one.”

Nymeria narrowed her gaze, but continued to smile, “Yes, well I’m lucky to have such a faithful and devoted betrothed.” She watched as Cersei’s smile grew hard, eyes shifting to Robert before moving back to Nymeria.

“Princess of Dorne to Lady of Winterfell,” Cersei chuckled, her tongue between her teeth, “That’s quite the trade.”

Nymeria smirked. She knew it was all for show. Cersei was running out of cards to play, so she went for the quick jabs, the ones that were meant to elicit a quick reaction. “And you went from the Lady of Casterly Rock to Robert Baratheon’s Queen. I’m unsure which one is worse.”

Cersei’s smile dissipated at her words and Nymeria tilted her head.

“Clever girl, aren’t you?” Cersei finally spoke, anger rumbling underneath her words, her narrowed green stare failing to unnerve the woman in front of her.

Nymeria curtseyed, “I certainly hope so. Your Grace,” She excused herself and moved over toward the stables, her smirk widening into a wide smile. Doran and Oberyn would be proud of her.

**JON SNOW**

His goodbye with Bran had soured his entire mood. He knew to expect Lady Stark there, he had even prepared himself for it, but there was a reason he avoided the woman, and the blatant malice she had spat at him while he tried to say goodbye to his little brother was one of the many reasons why.

Jon shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking such things. Lady Stark was grieving, just as they all were. But he hadn’t done much wrong. He didn’t know if he would even see Bran again, let alone if the younger child would wake. It had only reinforced the idea that going to the Wall was the right decision.

Even if Robb was able to protect him from Lady Stark’s vitriol long enough to make something for himself, she would always be there. Lingering over his shoulder, a shadow that would follow him until the end of his days. Her words always ringing in his head.

_It should have been you._

He’d been on the receiving end of her anger many times, but she seemed to forget that Bran was Jon’s brother too, and he was grieving just as much as she was. How many times had he thought that exact sentence? It should have been him instead. But hearing it come from the mouth of Lady Stark chilled him.

She was grieving, he reminded himself. He shouldn't think such awful things when she was grieving. She was the Lady of the house and she the right to say what she wished to her husband's bastard. But when Jon's throat closed up, he forced himself to turn his thoughts away from the incident. He would headed to the Wall soon, and the men there would be his brothers. And soon all of his memories of Winterfell would be forgotten.

As he was prepping his horse, he found himself ambushed by Robb, the red-haired heir still sticking by his side. Jon would miss him when he went up to the Wall. He would miss all of them.

He knew he wouldn’t get to visit for a long time, not until he proved himself worthy of it. His mind flew to the conversation he had with Jaime Lannister earlier, the knight’s arrogance and glib manner calling Jon’s whole world into question.

He had joined the Kingsguard hadn’t he? What was the difference between the two positions? Did the knight really believe a white cloak made him superior?

Did Jon really think a black cloak made him honorable?

“You’ve said goodbye to Bran?” Robb pulled Jon out of his thoughts, something the heir had been doing more of late. Jon nodded simply, not wishing to talk about the affair any further. His stomach dropped at the memory, anger burning in the pit of it. Robb stared ahead, his lips twitching upward just slightly, “He’s not going to die,” he spoke confidently, and Jon wished he could share his assuredness, “I know it.

Jon had already soiled one goodbye, he wouldn’t ruin this one. “You Starks are hard to kill,” is what he said instead, that one phrase all the hope he allowed himself to have. Jon turned away from his half-brother, trying to distance himself to make the transition easier. He buckled the saddle to his horse, the loyal beast his one and only nameday present a few years ago.

“My mother?” Robb asked, clearly picking up on Jon’s avoidance of the subject. Jon simply sighed, he didn’t have the heart to tell Robb the truth. Not when it would only place more blame on him.

“She was very kind,” Jon lied, hating how the words sounded in his mouth. He’d been saying them for years, and they never got any easier. He was an honorable man, exactly like his father. Lying would always be uncomfortable for him.

Robb nodded, face taut as he comprehended the news, “Good.”

Jon knew that Robb’s relationship with Lady Stark had only gotten stronger as Jon got older. He turned to face his half-brother one last time, the heir’s smile growing wider and more strained. This was bothering Robb, and Jon knew it. But there was no place for him here. Not anymore.

If Robb had been Lord then perhaps there could’ve been a chance. Jon could have become Master of Arms or Castellan of Winterfell instead of a bastard exiled to the Wall.

But angry blue eyes flashed in his mind, and the dream shattered. “Next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.”

Jon smiled tightly at the jape, trying to ignore the pain growing in his chest, “It was always my color,” He jested back, the air turning serious as more of the King’s party left the courtyard.

Robb’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing tightly. Jon reciprocated. But all he could think about were words he had heard long ago, where he could not say.

_Never trust an embrace, it’s just a way to hide your face._

“Farewell Snow,” Robb whispered, pulling away, something glistening in his eyes. Jon knew better than to comment on it, especially when he was feeling pressure behind his own.

“And you Stark.”

Robb’s disappearance from his side hurt more than Lady Catelyn’s words had, and just as the party was getting ready to set off onto the Kingsroad, an unfamiliar presence was by his side.

Jon would like to say that the few weeks Princess Nymeria had been here, he was used to her sneaking up on him, but that was completely untrue.

Somehow she always startled him, despite having several guards on her at all times. “And so he’s off,” She japed, her smirk growing wider, “The honorable Jon Snow, protector of the realm.”

“Careful,” Jon replied, scanning over his shoulder for any sign of the golden-haired brat they called a prince, “Your words could be seen as treason.”

Princess Nymeria shrugged, crossing her arms with a carelessness Jon envied. Perhaps he could have gone to Dorne. Squired for the Red Viper or Lord Dayne. From what the princess had told him, they did not look down on bastards in Dorne.

 _They were born out of passion,_ she had told him one drunken night in the stables, a wide smile on her face, _why should we despise what the gods created us for?_

“Words are wind,” She smiled slyly, a gleam in her eye as she met his gaze, russet clashing against grey, “But I will miss ours, Jon Snow.”  
Jon smiled at the thought. No one except his brothers and Arya had said such things, something bloomed in his chest at the sentiment. At least he would be missed by someone other than his family. “As will I Princess,” He bowed and caught her smile through his peripheral, as well as her guard’s look of approval.

Suddenly he was struck with a realization. She wasn’t dressed for travel. None of her retinue were. Their horses hadn’t even been saddled yet. Was she leaving later? So she didn’t have to deal with the company of the Lannister Queen and King Robert?

“Where’s your horse?” He decided to ask rather than wonder. That had always seemed to work with her. She may deceive with pretty words and courtesies, but she preferred those she liked to be straightforward with her. Perhaps Jon should take that as a compliment.

Nymeria’s body tensed, clearly something had struck a nerve with her. She bit down on her lip, expression tight and far from the relaxed smile she was wearing earlier. “My Uncle has ordered me here,” She spoke as if a Septa was forcing her to recite a passage from one of their texts, “I am to stay until he grants me leave.”  
Jon nodded slowly and bit the inside of his cheek.

Nymeria was a prisoner, not unlike Theon Greyjoy. Except instead of using her to keep the House in line, the Martells had planted one of their own in the halls of Winterfell, for what reason Jon couldn’t say.

The Martells were beings of mystery. Secrets and shadows were their trade, and the fact that they had remained an independent kingdom almost three hundred years after Aegon’s conquest only added to Westeros’ fascination.

“Who knows,” Nymeria’s tone turned lighter, no doubt trying to make her goodbye a jolly one, “Perhaps he’ll send me to the Wall next.”

Jon couldn’t hold in his chuckle at that. It echoed on the stone walls, the tension instantly dissipating at the sound. Nymeria was joining him, the sound a musical one as the skin around her nose crinkled, creating laugh lines instead of frown lines.

Jon mounted his horse, staring down at the woman, a smile written on his face. “A woman at the wall? I don’t think Prince Doran’s situation is that dire yet, Your Highness,”

Nymeria nodded and stepped away, her lips curled up into a relaxed smile on her face. He meant it when he said he would miss her. While he was still in a mood, it felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, his body much lighter than it had been.

“May we meet again Jon Snow,” Nymeria curtseyed slightly, an honor Jon had never received in his entire life. He bowed his head, hoping that it would be sooner rather than later.

“Until then, My Princess,”

His horse whinnied as he followed his father’s household out the gates of Winterfell, Ghost whining beside him.

**NED STARK**

Ned’s grip tightened on the reins as he watched Jon and the Princess interact. Their smiles were so different, yet the exact same.

It was dangerous for both of them. They shouldn’t be interacting with each other but they were. Ned had never seen Jon so relaxed around someone outside of his own family. His smile was easy, laughter escaping him so naturally, Ned’s chest panged.

It was too familiar a sight, and Ned had to turn away. Echoes of promises and secrets filled his head, bouncing around in his mind until he would be laid in the crypts beside the woman he spoke them to.

He’d been burdened for so long, trapped by his own honor and love for his family. And then this girl wanders in and threatens to undo all his work.

How much did Prince Doran know? He had no intention of betrothing his niece, and the closeness Nymeria and Jon shared could not be a coincidence.

Martells were cunning, they were smart. And Prince Doran was always several steps ahead of anyone. It was the reason Elia had married the Dragon Prince in the first place.

They only sought power.

But he could find nothing duplicitous on the Princess’s face. Her smile was sweet and even seemed genuine. Unlike the one she gave Robert. If her Uncle did have some sort of plan in place, it was highly unlikely she knew about it.

The resemblance was what shocked Ned the most. He had only seen Princess Elia a handful of times, including that awful day at Harrenhal, but the woman in the courtyard was a near-perfect copy of her. The shimmering olive skin and dark ringlets that framed her face. The princess hadn't inherited her mother's height, but she made up for it in charm. _Too much charm_ , Ned thought.

But it was the eyes that sealed it.

Those big brown doe-eyes that seemed to melt into the perfect mixture of copper and gold when the sun hit them. They were guarded, but always a hint of curiosity behind them, eager to explore and learn.

Lyanna had been born with the same eyes, except hers had been the color of the moon, and now sat in the face of the boy Ned called his bastard.

The gate closed behind Jon, the Martell princess smirking as she watched Jon gallop away. Ned finally turned to face his bastard before heading down the Kingsroad, His solemn air had dissipated, a slight upturn to his lips as they rode.

Ned chalked it up to the cheerful goodbye Jon had given Arya, and refused to think of anything else. He wouldn’t entertain that option.

Not when it would threaten everything he’d worked so hard to protect. Let Robb marry the dornish girl, if only to save Jon from the storm that would descend if he continued down this route.

Elia’s daughter was not an option. Not when Robert was alive. 

Not when he was heading into a den of Lannisters.

Their horses stopped at the fork in the road, one leading north and one leading south.

Ned turned to his son—because that’s what he was now, to think of him as anything else was treason and dishonest—his own solemn grey eyes looking into a pair of matching ones.

“There’s great honor in serving the Night’s Watch,” Ned reminded Jon, knowing how far the order had fallen in recent years, Jon raised an eyebrow, “The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years,”

Ned didn’t miss how Jon stiffened. Gods he wanted to tell the boy everything. That no matter who his father was, he was indeed a Stark. That a last name meant little more than a position of power, that a man didn’t need one to make something of himself. “And you are a Stark,” He settled on instead, hoping it would be enough, “You may not have my name, but you have my blood.”

Jon’s shoulder’s relaxed slightly, a melancholy descending over him. He took a deep breath, “Is my mother alive?” He finally asked. Ned inhaled sharply. “Does she know about me? Where I am, where I’m going?” He paused before asking his last question, “Does she care?”

Of course, she does. She cared more than anyone else.

But he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t say a lot of things. Ned’s mind briefly flew toward the Martell princess again.

Her uncles had been open with her. Her heritage was known throughout the kingdom. But it had been her father that saved her. The fact that she wasn’t a Targaryen had been the only reason Robert had legitimized her in the first place.

Born a bastard but raised to a princess.

Ned wanted to chuckle at the irony. Elia’s affair had saved her daughter’s life, while Ned’s had ruined his son’s.

_Promise Me, Ned._

His grip tightened again. “The next time we see each other,” Ned promised, grabbing ahold of Jon’s shoulder and steeling his gaze, “We’ll talk about your mother.”

But as Ned rode away, something prickled behind his eyes, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there wouldn’t be a next time.

For either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, so much set up for the next couple chapters but these next few are some of my favs!
> 
> Please let me know what you thought about this chapter, as well as the reveal of Nymeria's father! 
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos and a review if you're enjoying the story!!


	5. And Full Of Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn watches over Bran. Nymeria gains the Starks' trust. Bran dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Thank you all so much for the reviews and kudos!
> 
> Sorry I haven't updated in a while, things have been crazy, but they're much better now.
> 
> Thank you guys for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's one of my favorites!

**CATELYN STARK**

The numbness consumed her. All Catelyn could do was stare at her boy, her second to youngest son, and worry. Was he going to be okay? Was his life finally over? He had been so excited to head south, to squire, and have an actual chance at proving himself. To be something other than the second son of a second son.

Now he was nothing. Dead at worst, crippled for life at best.

All because she prayed to the gods to let Bran stay.

"It's time we reviewed the accounts, my lady," Luwin's voice was far away, barely registering in her head, "You'll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us."

No she didn't. She didn't care about that anymore. The accounts meant nothing when she was faced with the possibility of losing her child.

 **"** Talk to Poole about it." She ordered, hoping it would be enough to send the Maester away. She didn't want to see anyone. She didn't want to talk with anyone. All she wanted was to sit next to her boy, her precious boy, and spend as much time with him as he had left.

But Luwin wouldn't leave her alone. No one would leave her alone.

They were all scared she would break. That she would succumb to grief like the Lady Ashara had seven and ten years ago.

But she was a Tully of Riverrun, a Stark of Winterfell. Steel had been forged in her blood when she had lost her mother and younger brother at twelve, and again when Brandon went south and never returned.

She was no weak woman.

But her children were. Her children needed protection. They were still of summer, and winter was coming.

So she would stay by Bran's side until he woke up. She would stay by his side, watching over him as a mother should. As her mother watched over her when she had gotten ill. No one would tear her away.

 **"** Poole went south with Lord Stark, my lady," Luwin continued while irritation boiled in Cat's stomach. Ned shouldn't have gone. She saw that now. Ned should have stayed here until Bran was better. He should have stayed to support her, to support his son. Wasn't that what a husband did? Wasn't that what she had signed up for all those years ago in the godswood? Something dark clawed at her stomach, but she shook it away. Ned was needed elsewhere, to keep him from Robert was selfish, no matter how much she wanted it.

"We need a new steward," Luwin listed, almost treading on eggshells around her, careful not to say anything too offending, "And there are several other appointments that require our immediate attention—"

Cat whirled around at the Maester, fire burning behind her gaze, "I don't care about appointments!" Her voice echoed off the cold walls of Bran's room, and the Maester stumbled back.

"I'll make the appointments," Robb spoke up, and Catelyn turned her gaze toward her eldest son. How long had he been there? Was he always there and she didn't know? "We'll talk about it first thing in the morning."

The Maester nodded, "Very good, my Lord. " He bowed before leaving the room, "My Lady."

Cat sighed, sinking back into her chair, clutching the doll in her hand. It's resemblance to the Crone little, except for the head she was currently shaping.

The woven star sat on her lap, awaiting the newest addition of the seven, and Catelyn's throat closed up as she recalled the last time she stayed up with a sick boy in Winterfell, and the promise she had made then.

Perhaps the gods thought it a perfect punishment then, to take her boy from her. She watched Robb open the windows, the bloody howling of the wolves growing louder, piercing her ears. They sounded so sad, so distraught, but Catelyn couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear any more grief.

She could only stomach her own.

Robb refused to face her, something Ned had done when he disapproved of Cat. She had seen it many times during their discussions of the bastard.

"When was the last time you left this room?" Robb asked, trying to be strong. Trying to sound like his father.

Cat's gaze floated downward, continuing to carve the head of the doll, "I have to take care of him."

"He's not going to die, mother," Robb spoke confidently, "Maester Luwin says the most dangerous time has passed."

She clutched the doll tighter. Maester Vyman had said the same thing before her mother had gone. The Maester's words had done nothing to save her mother, and Luwin's had done nothing to save her son.

They were pretty things, meant to soothe and comfort, but when you're a mother those are luxuries. You worry about your children until the end of your days.

"What if he's wrong?" Cat questioned, catching the heir by surprise, her grip grew tighter, "Bran needs me."

Robb whirled around, an incredulous look in his eyes. The eyes she had given him. "Rickon needs you!" He protested, his voice growing louder, "He's six. He doesn't know what's happening. He follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying…" Robb trailed off, hanging his head as he turned back toward the window, "I need you." He finally confessed, "Father is gone and without him, I have no idea…."

He trailed off again, and guilt wracked her chest. A sharp pain bloomed underneath her ribs, a physical reminder of her neglect of her sons.

Her eyes flitted toward her bedridden boy, his face serene, like the moon hanging above them. He needed her too. She couldn't leave him, she just couldn't. The howling pulled her away from Bran, the wolves' sad songs only a reminder of her neglect. She had abandoned her sons in favor of the other. But it was necessary. She wouldn't hear the news second-hand. Not like her mother. Not like her brother.

Bran was her child, and she would be there to see the outcome. If only she could get the howls out of her head. But they echoed repeatedly, calling to her, asking her to care, "Close the windows! I can't stand it!" She yelled, standing up from her spot, Robb's eyes growing wider at her outburst, "Please make them stop!"

Robb sighed, hesitating for a moment before turning back toward the open window, the northern wind cooling the room down, threatening to blow out the candles. Robb's hands paused on the shudders, his back tensing as he moved away, her request unfulfilled.

"Fire," He uttered, shock and fear writ across his face, he turned toward Catelyn, an urgent look in his eyes, "You stay here. I'll come back."

Catelyn could only stare in shock, even after Robb was long gone, she stayed at the window, watching the tiny fire grow in size, spilling out the windows of the library.

Footsteps were silent behind her, but the breathing was ragged. She turned slowly, meeting the crazed gaze of a sallow faced man with greying skin, a twisted smile on his lips.

"You're not supposed to be here." He uttered, his smile dying at the sight of her. "No one is supposed to be here."

A chill ran through Cat's bones, and suddenly she found herself wishing that Robb had stayed with her.

The man glanced at Bran before turning his dead eyes back to her, "It's a mercy. He's dead already."

A glint of silver flashed in the candlelight and Catelyn's stomach dropped, "NO!" She yelled, running toward Bran, hand reached out in a futile attempt to stop him. He grabbed her wrist and backhanded her, the force of the blow sending her collapsing onto the furs. Before she could retaliate, a fist was grasping the top of her hair, pulling out strands, the sharp pain nothing compared to what he was going to do to both of them if he had his way, the sound of steel sinking into flesh was heard and she raised her hands up, protecting her throat in case that was the next spot he would go for.

Blood rushed over her thighs, staining the worn dress she hadn't changed out of. But when she dared to look down, she realized it wasn't her blood.

It wasn't his knife. The blade slid out of the assassin's stomach and Catelyn's weight was thrown to the side, slamming into the wooden bedside table.

She was unharmed, she thought. She had protected Bran and she was unharmed.

When she caught sight of her hero, they were blocking the assassin's blows, a head of dark curls obscuring her face, but Catelyn knew who it was.

Shock pulsed through her as Nymeria Martell battled the man who had tried to kill Catelyn. The man who tried to kill Bran.

The woman held the assassin in a chokehold, hands positioned to break his neck at any point. "Who sent you?!" She demanded, her accent slurring her words slightly. It was angry, it was fury. The man refused to answer and the Princess tightened her grip, this time bringing her knife closer to his jugular, "With one nick I can drain all the blood in your body, but it'll be slow….painful. Tell me who sent you and maybe I'll give you the mercy of a quick death."  
Catelyn saw the resemblance fully now. The hot-blooded dornishwoman looked like the Red Viper, standing above her prey with a gleam in her eyes. Cat had seen it on many faces at Winterfell. On her own brother's face.

It was pride. And it was her downfall. The man used his strength to slam Nymeria into the wall and snatched the knife from her hand, slicing her palm before turning back to Bran.

Catelyn was weak, but she would not let him harm her son. She moved to position herself in front of the bed when a snarl was heard, and a silvery-grey blur sunk its teeth into the assassin, his screams dying as his throat lay exposed on the floor, vocal cords torn out and swallowed by the wolf who was now settling in next to Bran, placing his snout over her son's stomach, bright yellow eyes never leaving the door.

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

The antidote was already causing the wound to scab over, blood no longer draining from the cut in her hand. She'd never make a mistake like that again. Pride had been her downfall, much like Oberyn in that regard.

Martells were proud, she mused, but to let that get in the way of a kill, of their objective….it would do no good.

Doran knew this. It was why he had sent her here. He had pride, but not enough to cut off the Starks completely. They would be valuable allies, especially when it came to King's Landing. So here she had remained. And they were lucky she did.

Lady Stark had remained unharmed, Nymeria showing up before the catspaw could eliminate both of them. She examined the dagger before her, the fine Valyrian steel gleaming as she held it at just the right angle. The black dragonbone was smooth, with a golden pommel on the end. Sheathing it, Nymeria handed it back to Lady Stark, the two of them alone in the room where the young Stark boy slept.

"Whoever commissioned it was wealthy," Nymeria announced. Lady Stark had asked her to discover who owned it, seeing as she was the only knife and dagger expert in Winterfell at the moment, "Wealthier than the crown I would say."

Nymeria wasn't hiding anything from the woman. She knew the Lannisters had something to do with Bran's fall, or else Lady Lannister wouldn't have been in such a foul mood the next day. Everyone else was gone during the hunt when the boy fell. Except for the Lannisters.

They were rash. It was plausible they had sent the catspaw to silence the boy.

Luckily, there was one Lannister incredibly close to Winterfell with a certain resentment against the Lady of the house.

"You're sure?" Lady Stark asked, her Tully blue eyes widening at the assessment. She suspected it too, and Nymeria's words were confirmation.

She nodded. Valyrian steel was priceless in Dorne. They had no ancestral weapon to call their own, and while Doran wasn't nearly as upset about it as Tywin Lannister, Oberyn was, even going to far to try and travel to the Doom of Valyria in an attempt to forge his own. Doran had chastised him for it, Nymeria thought it was lucky her uncle didn't contract greyscale in his journey.

Since then House Martell had given up on Valyrian steel, and as Nymeria stared at the gleaming dagger before her, she wondered how such a simple blade could be worth so much.

Lady Stark tightened her hold on the scabbard, moving to close the door to ensure no one would hear them. "What is said must never leave this room."  
Nymeria's eyebrow cocked. Oberyn was right, the Starks were a trusting lot. Even if someone had saved her life, Nymeria wouldn't trust them with family secrets. But this was what Doran sent her to do, and if Lady Stark wanted to divulge her plans to them, she wouldn't protest.

"I have reason to believe that my son's fall was no accident," Lady Stark confided, thus confirming Nymeria's suspicion, "And I believe the same people responsible for his fall are the ones who sent the catspaw,"

Nymeria nodded. She was just stating facts at this point. Lady Stark wrung her hands, eyes flitting between her bedridden son and the dagger on the end table.

"The only people wealthy enough to own a blade like that are down south," She spoke cryptically, making sure to never utter the House name even in private, "And we would be at the mercy of the gods if their liege lord found out about our accusation," Lady Stark stepped out from behind the desk, handing the dagger to Nymeria, hilt first. "I know I have no right to ask it of you, but I need to know."

Nymeria understood her request. King's Landing was a month away, the Wall was only a few days ride. She grasped the dagger in her hand, brown meeting blue in a silent agreement.

**BRAN STARK**

He dreamt he was flying. He had become a raven, cloaked in black feathers. His nose became hooked, hardening into a beak that allowed him to crack even the hardest of seeds, his body soaring high above the realm, until he finally perched on the Wolf's Head near the broken tower. His feathers had melted back into skin, and his beak at became crooked, replaced with human bone.

"Fall" something crowed beside him.

Bran whipped his head to his side, and by his side was the raven he had been, tilting his head slightly at the younger boy.

"Not fall," The bird crowed again, "Fly."

It all came rushing back to him. Golden hair, howling wolves, steel against steel. _The things I do for love._

Bran's blood froze, and beside him, the raven seemed to let out a disappointed sigh. "I fell," He replied, trying not to feel silly for talking to the animal. Was this what death felt like? That must be it. He was somewhere in the Seven Hells, faced with his own torture until he could earn his way out.

He had died when he hit the ground, and now he was left with only the raven for company.

"Not fall," The bird repeated, "Fly."

"You're wrong!" Bran yelled, already irritated with the bird. What kind of punishment was this anyway? A stupid one, he decided. His father would have agreed with it. A stupid punishment for a stupid decision, Bran imagined Father saying.

Tears suddenly sprung up in his eyes and Bran fought to push them down. He would never see his family again. He would never see Father or Arya or mother. Never spar with Robb, Jon, and Theon. Or discuss stories with Rickon and Sansa.

It was unfair, he mused.

"Not fair," The raven crowed again, and this snapped Bran out of his thoughts. Could the bird read his mind? "Life not fair."  
"At least someone gets it," Bran huffed, drawing his knees close to his chest. He remained in that position for not much longer, because the bird had flown directly at his head, almost sending him into a repeat incident, Bran's reflexes the only thing keeping him from falling.

No, he told himself. Not falling. Flying.

He finally held enough courage to look down, and what he saw burned itself into his memory. Winterfell was below him, Ser Rodrick going about his day the same way Vayon Poole was. But that wasn't possible. Vayon Poole had joined Father in the south.

The map seemed to shift, pulling him forward until he was watching a red-headed woman with a solemn face pore over a drawing of a dagger, her eyes concealed from Bran's vision. The sail flapped in the winds of the Narrow sea, the bow pointed south. Where Bran was pulled again.

He was to go south with his father. He was to go south to be a knight.

But what he saw he cursed. Sansa writhed in her bed, clutching her pillow closer to her while Arya sat opposite their sister, trying to drown out Sansa's sobs with her own secrets, keeping them close to her heart. Never letting another soul touch them. He sees Father on his knees before the King, this time with a haggard look in his eyes, and pleading words leaving his lips.

The Trident. Something whispers in his mind. They're at the Trident.

And all Bran can see is shadows. One tastes of ash and wears the terrible face of a hound, another golden and beautiful and familiar. Bran knew how bright that shadow could shine. And there's one more. One with blood as black as Dragonstone, cold and made of stone. A giant looming over them all.

He's pulled away before he can investigate further, for a brief glimpse at the far east, where dragons squirm and wish to be freed from stone. Their roars are heard by no one except Bran, who sees a large purple shadow beside a much smaller one. He is unsure which the dragons belong to.

The Wall is his last stop. Or so Bran hopes. Jon is growing cold, his doors closed off to his brothers. But when a figure made of moonlight appears beside his bed, entering his room like it was second nature, Jon thaws. Bran knows the moonlight. And a terrible scream echoes in his mind, while stories of Others and the shadow lands of Asshai play in his mind, looming over the Martell Princess and his brother.

The raven pulled him even further. Beyond the Wall, where wildlings are scattering, abandoning their homes to head south. But then he moves even further. To a land he wasn't sure existed. In the Land of Always Winter, he catches a glimpse of creatures long forgotten. Another giant looms over them all. His visor matching the shadow Bran saw earlier. He's cold. And the spires of ice make him want to shrink into himself and never return. But his curiosity gets the better of him. Again.

So Bran removes the visor, and regrets the moment he does.

Icy breath blew into his lungs, expelling out of him and into the air.

His eyes flew open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed this chapter!!


	6. The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion faces an accusation and Nymeria's plans take a detour.

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

Her quill tapped against the parchment Lady Stark had laid out for her. Areo had convinced her to send a raven to Doran, explaining everything and to list where she was going in case she was stuck up North longer than expected.

Each raven took a month to send and a month to receive. The North was too isolated for them. She would be alone. A chill struck her bones and she stood up to stoke the fire. If it was this cold in Winterfell, she dreaded what it would be like at the Wall.

Nymeria had instructed Areo to sail back to Sunspear, a demand the Norvosi was unhappy to fulfill.

"There's nothing you can do this far north Areo," She had told him, trying to imitate the dismissive yet sympathetic gaze Doran always used, "I will take Ser Marwyn with me to the Wall, but I insist you head home, We both know how much you despise the snow,"

She had meant that last part as a jape, but they both knew the truth to it. Areo was loyal, to a fault really. He would give his life for any of them, and that chilled her more than the northern climate did.

She wouldn't let him freeze up here.

"I must insist upon my being there, Princess," Areo protested, his deep voice echoing off the walls, "Your Uncle sent me to protect you, I would not disobey him."

"My Uncle is not here," Nymeria frowned, trying to keep her emotions under wraps as she stamped the sigil of her house on grey and white wax, "And I can protect myself. My Uncle however, is in need of your services. Especially with his condition."

"My Princess, I—"

"There's nothing more to discuss," Nymeria shut the guard down, handing him the letter, her raised eyebrow indicating that she did not wish to discuss it any further, "Take this to Prince Doran when you reach Sunspear, up here a ship is far faster than a raven."

Areo reluctantly grabbed the letter, stuffing it in the pocket of his ochre velvet armor near his chest. Nymeria smiled gratefully at the man as she stood up, he knew he had no choice but to follow her orders. Invoking her Uncle's condition left a sour taste in her mouth, but she knew it needed to be done. He wouldn't leave otherwise, and she would not have him die here.

The Starks were playing a dangerous game and she had sworn to herself that she would be the only Martell caught up in it. This was her part to play. This was her part in Doran's plan. This was her way to show the world that Dornish people are not all one way. That the Martells could be just as noble as the Starks. It was a perception that needed work, but one Nymeria would gladly devote herself to.

The dagger was strapped to her upper arm, easily accessible but hidden by the thick cloak Lady Stark had gifted her. The woman and her son had given her many tunics and dresses to wear in the unforgiving climate. Nymeria had chosen to ignore the latter, favoring tunics and breeches for their movement. Dresses she wore on occasion, for martial matches or trips to court. Not everyday.

This was a trip with a purpose, in a place she did not know. With weather she was unused to. The tunics were the logical decision.

"And so you're off to the Wall," A northern accent appeared behind her, and Nymeria whipped around, Areo readying his halberd. Robb raised his hands in surrender, and Nymeria waved Areo down. The red-headed heir pressed forward, moving away from his spot by the door, playing with something in his hands. It glinted when the sun hit it and soon Nymeria saw what it was.

"I wanted to thank you," He offered the pin toward her. The sigil of her house slid between his fingers, gilded and shining. Her hand wrapped gingerly around it, the golden flames of the sun pricking the pads of her fingers.

"It's beautiful," She spoke through choked vocal cords, securing the thick wool around her shoulders with the ornate broach. Robb smiled at the gesture, his Tully blue eyes lighting up.

Deep down, he was just a boy, and he got excited when a pretty girl complimented him.

"It's not enough payment," Robb muttered, "You saved my brother, and I wish I could do more to show our gratitude."

Nymeria shook her head. "It's perfect," She embellished. She had been here to make allies with the Starks, and it seemed she was doing just that. She didn't need to be in their debt.

She tightened the pin on her cloak, the golden sun and spear shimmering in the rare sunlight. It had been difficult to pierce through the thick fur and wool of her cloak, but it didn't bend. It was well-crafted.

She hoped it would last the winter.

"You're a good man Robb," She tested the name on her tongue, and decided that it fit him. "Don't let the south steal that from you."

He chuckled, and shook his head, "I have no plans to go south my princess,"

Her teeth peeked through her lips, a shy smile on her face as she met his bright blue eyes. They were wide and hopeful, the same idealism as the rest of his family present in them.

"Your mother is practically declaring war on the Lannisters," Nymeria informed him, thoughts drifting to the silent war the Martells were already waging, "You'll be heading south eventually, and when you do—"

"I'm a Stark," Robb cut her off, his stern demeanor returning, trying to become his father. But he was too soft. Too green. "And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Nymeria couldn't keep the smile from her face. He was so serious, so much like the man who raised him.

"You truly are your father's son," She complimented, and Robb smiled at her words.

"I can imagine no higher compliment, my princess,"

"No," Nymeria said, "I don't suppose you could." Her fingers drifted to the pin, spinning it around once, biting the inside of her cheek, "I suppose this means the marriage is off."  
Robb's chuckle exploded into laughter, and he moved forward, his arms still crossed, "A pity, you bring some much-needed cheer with you." He repaid her compliment, "Winterfell could have used a protector like you."  
Nymeria held out her hand, and instead of clasping it, Robb brought it to his lips, the sweet gesture feeling out of place in the Northern cold.

"Until we meet again, Princess Nymeria,"

"Lord Stark," She nodded, and watched his retreating figure, unable to quell the growing fondness in her chest.

Her black stallion was waiting for her, already dressed for the nine-day journey. Ser Marwyn climbed up beside her sand steed and Nymeria nodded gratefully, tying the packs near the back of the horse with the complicated knot she had learned in her youth, chuckling slightly at the memory of how she had learned it.

Oberyn had attempted to sit her down to teach it, only to realize that she was too restless. The next morning she had woken with her hands and feet bound together with the exact knot she was using now.

It had taken her all day to untie them, but she had learned it. And she had never forgotten it.

"My Princess!" A voice called, halting her steps. Nymeria turned to see Lady Stark striding over toward her, the Maester not far behind, Nymeria nodded her head, still unsure how to feel about the family, "We wish you safe travels, hopefully, you find what you are searching for,"

Nymeria now understood why she had come to see her off instead of her son. Northerners were annoyingly straightforward. It would be a miracle if Lord Stark and his daughters would survive King's Landing, he was the worst of them all.

_Life was an endless series of duels and battles,_ her Uncles had taught her. _Some with a blade, some with wit. Always be on your guard, even with those you love._

Lady Stark seemed to understand this. She was from the south, she knew the game. 

Nymeria would not insult her by speaking her mind. "If I do, I shall send a raven about anything interesting I find."

They were veiled, but she was certain that she had been far too transparent. She wasn't Doran after all. But she needed to be.

Lady Stark's strained expression only confirmed her thoughts. Nymeria huffed as she mounted her horse, spurring the animal forward. She had spent far too much time in the north. It was time she returned home.

**TYRION LANNISTER**

Somehow the North never ran out of depressing sights no matter how far up you went. And one of those sights happened to be the Bastard of Winterfell knocking down every boy in his path, while Ser Alliser Thorne shouted at them for not being strong enough to take down a lad of seven and ten.

Tyrion sighed. The Night's Watch truly had fallen from what it once was. Not that it had been something great to begin with.

Oh yes, he'd heard the stories, read most of them when he was a child. Of how the great men of the Night's Watch had bravely fought off the creatures beyond the wall. And how the grumpkins and snarks were back at their doorstep once again.

It was little more than a prison now. A way to punish the wrongdoers of the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion felt rather sympathetic toward the order, especially after discussing war stories with the Lord Commander and Benjen Stark.

They were still proud to be members. Jaded and cynical, but proud. Much like Ser Barristan in that regard.

Steel clashed against steel again and Tyrion winced as he caught sight of the farm boy Grenn collapse to the ground, the Bastard standing victorious once again.

Ser Alliser looked unimpressed.

"A charming man." Tyrion jested, watching the group of new recruits glare at the curly-haired bastard who had knocked them on their feet. His eyes narrowed at the sight. That would only lead to trouble.

Mormont sighed, shaking his head at the new men, "Don't need him to be charming." The older man explained, "I need him to turn this bunch of thieves and runaways into men of the Night's Watch."

Tyrion resisted the urge to laugh. A pipe dream if ever there was one. "And how's that going, Commander Mormont?"

Jeor Mormont huffed, it almost sounding like a chuckle. Strange, to find humor in a humorless place. Maybe he had some use up here after all, "Slowly," The man responded, pausing before continuing his next words, "A raven came for Ned Stark's son."

Tyrion wrinkled his brow. A month and almost no word from Winterfell, yet Jeor Mormont held the parchment in his hand. Something must have happened that alerting the Bastard was necessary. Sentimental, not practical.

His half-brother must have woken up. His suspicions were confirmed when Mormont handed him the letter, the older man turning his back on the courtyard and moving into the keep. Tyrion sighed and bounded down the stairs, his hip aching with every step.

The pain was dull and he was used to it, but by the gods it annoyed him. Crossing the courtyard was easier, even with the snow falling. Yells coming from the armory drew Tyrion to the commotion, and he was unsurprised to find the Bastard in the middle of it all, Grenn holding a dagger to his neck while two others held the boy down.

"If we threw you over the Wall, wonder how long it'd take you to hit." Grenn snarled, his knife inching closer to Snow's neck.

The one he barely recognized as Pyp smiled just as wickedly, "I wonder if they'd find you before the wolves did."

Tyrion's sigh drew their attention toward him, their angered looks not diminishing in his presence. He understood better than most. Their pride had been wounded, Snow thought himself better than them. So they make him bleed, prove him to be human, to take him down to their level.

It was quite transparent really. Tyrion was almost disappointed.

Grenn spoke first, "What're you looking at, halfman?"

Tyrion's eyes narrowed at the moniker. Smalfolk had called him much worse to his face, but like Jaime and his title of 'Kingslayer', it still stung.

"I'm looking at you." He began, playing a game with the three men before him, "You've got an interesting face. Very distinctive faces. All of you."

They shifted slightly, but still showed no signs of backing down. Tyrion's smirk grew wider.

"What do you care about our faces?" The man he didn't recognize, but had a surprisingly punchable face was the next one to speak, and his voice was just as insufferable as the rest of him.

Tyrion's eyes never left the men, "It's just I think they would look marvelous decorating spikes in King's Landing." He bluffed, preying on their fear, "Perhaps I'll write my sister, the Queen, about it."

That was enough to shut them up. Grenn squirmed before dropping his knife, Pyp and the other recruit releasing their grip on the Bastard.

Satisfaction pinged in Tyrion's chest.

Snow turned to face him, and Tyrion had to hide his shock. The look on his face was surprisingly similar to his brother's. Jaime had always been the proud sort, not as much as Cersei, but when he was confident he let everyone know it. And when he got angry at others for taking advantage of him, he wore the exact same look Jon Snow was wearing now.

The last time Tyrion had seen it he had been eight, watching Jaime pack his things for the Kingsguard after Aerys had told him to leave the Tourney of Harrenhal and guard Queen Rhaella.

The look of a man who had been tricked.

There weren't many similarities between the Bastard of Winterfell and his brother, but this was one of them.

"Everybody knew what this place was and no one told me." Snow muttered, vexation apparent in his tone, "No one but you. My father knew and left me to rot here at the Wall all the same."

Tyrion wanted to tell him that Ned Stark had cautioned the boy against the Wall. That he had only given in because of how stubborn Snow was.

Tyrion wanted to tell him that his own uncle, Benjen Stark had warned him the night of the King's feast in Winterfell.

Tyrion wanted to tell him that even the Martell princess had given Snow an alternative. That he could have ridden down to Dorne, where bastards are loved, and perhaps been given a chance there.

But he didn't say any of that. Instead, he turned to Grenn and Pyp. Two boys who had no hand in the cards they'd been dealt. Who had no choice in their appointments to the Wall.

**"** Grenn's father left him too…" Tyrion began, recalling the story the Lord Commander had told him, "Outside a farmhouse when he was three." He turned to the skinnier boy, "Pyp was caught stealing a wheel of cheese. His little sister hadn't eaten in three days. He was given a choice: his right hand or the Wall." Snow's expression fell, but the pride remained, "I've been asking the Lord Commander about them. Fascinating stories."

Jon Snow launched forward, his words guttural, "They hate me because I'm better than they are."

Tyrion wanted to slap him upside the head like he'd done to Jaime so many times. Like Father had done to all his children. Of course, he was better than they were. He was raised at a castle.

"It's a lucky thing none of them were trained by a master-at-arms like your Ser Rodrik." Tyrion threw in the bastard's face, trying to shame him into deflating his head, "I don't imagine any of them have ever held a real sword before they came here." That seemed to knock some sense into the poor bastard and Snow's gaze wandered to the two recruits who had attempted to beat him up. Tyrion sighed, he didn't have time for these petty squabbles. They would be resolved in time. His hand held out the parchment toward Snow, the seal unbroken, "Your brother Bran. He's woken up."

Snow tore the letter from his hand, eagerly reading the words until a horn drew his attention away from it. It drew Tyrion's as well.

His interest was piqued even more when he saw men in black hurry down the stairs and across the courtyard, gathering as the gates were lifted, and when he and Jon had pushed their way to the front of the crowd, he understood why the men were so curious.

"Tyrion Lannister," The Martell Princess smirked, dismounting her black sand steed, "I have a gift for you."  
He gulped. This was why she had come north. To isolate his family and kill them one by one. Revenge for her mother. Revenge for her cousins. What better way than to rob Tywin Lannister of his heir? Even if it was only by blood.

He watched as she reached underneath her cloak, unstrapping something from her arm and pulling it out. Tyrion examined the weapon before him, eyes widening as he recalled the dagger he had almost won from Petyr Baelish back at Joffery's awful nameday Tourney. Robert had won it instead.

"You should be lucky Catelyn Stark sent me and not her guards," the princess uttered, Tyrion and Jon's eyes flicking up to meet hers.

"Lady Stark sent you?" He asked, trying to understand why the woman was so invested in a dagger that hadn't been used in years. The princess nodded, her smirk never leaving her face. Martells, also too proud for their own good.

"She asks you to pray for her family," The princess remarked, words becoming pointed and straightforward, "Apparently, Winterfell is not as safe for children as we once thought."  
Her words hung in the air, conversations erupting around Tyrion as he put the pieces together. There was only one child vulnerable enough to send a catspaw after, and he did not doubt that Cersei would have done it in a second. But it was the dagger that stumped him.

But he also knew that there were eyes on him, waiting for his next move. No doubt wondering why a Princess of Dorne had traveled all the way up North to inquire about a dagger of all things. Not to mention bearing news that Winterfell may not be as safe as it once was.

Wasting no time, he nodded toward the King's Tower, and the princess followed, winking at Jon Snow as she passed, the Bastard's cheeks flushing at the gesture.

She let him lead, which was rather generous of her, but he briefly wondered if it was some sort of veiled insult he hadn't caught on to.

When they were safely inside his quarters, he closed the door behind them, locking it to ensure no one else would hear their words.

The Princess was waiting patiently, a gleam in her eyes as she stood, hands intertwined in front of her.

She was a pretty thing, her mother's more homely features hewn away by the Dayne blood coursing through her veins, leaving a cut jawline and defined cheekbones, a deceptive softness filling out the rest of her face.

From what he'd heard, Nymeria Martell had a much prettier older cousin, but Prince Doran had only brought her before men unworthy of her hand. It looked as if he was doing the same with his niece. Honey-colored eyes and slender curves that would drive lesser men mad, Princess Nymeria seemed too pretty a jewel to ship away. Her height had been inherited by her father, but her charm seemed a welcome trade for the attribute. He was convinced it had come from Prince Doran. Ser Arthur Dayne and Elia Martell hadn't had much at all.

But none of that charm was present as she eyed him.

Her full lips curled into a victorious smirk.

The viper was ready to pounce, but Tyrion knew the truth. And it would be very disappointing for her to hear.

"Why are you here Princess Nymeria?" He made sure to use her full name, knowing exactly how picky the Martells could get about their titles. The Princess gestured to the dagger Tyrion had haphazardly thrown across his desk, "I told you, Lord Lannister," Her smirk fell into a frown, eyes narrowing at him, "Lady Stark sent me."

"Yes, to investigate my connections to this dagger," Tyrion spoke casually, finding that it usually made his opponents squirm, "No doubt she believes I sent it to kill her son."

The Princess nodded, a tight smile flashing across her face before disappearing again. "And did you?"

Tyrion sighed. Why did his sister and brother have to cause so much trouble for him to undo? The Martells already despised them, they didn't need the Starks going after them as well.

"No," Tyrion spoke truly, although he could tell she didn't believe him, "I tried to win it in a bet with Petyr Baelish. As always, I bet on my brother Jaime, and when he was unhorsed by Ser Loras Tyrell, I was forced to hand over fifty gold dragons to the weasel."

He soured at the memory. It wasn't a fun tourney to begin with, but his bet with Littlefinger had made it even less so.

Tyrion carefully watched the reaction of the woman before him. Her eyes were still narrowed his direction, arms crossed as she scanned him. She's searching for tells, he realized. Anything to give away that he was lying.

"You're sure you never bet against your brother?" She asked, catching him off guard. Tyrion blinked. That was not the question he was expecting.

"Of course," Tyrion clarified, deciding to manipulate the situation a little more, "He is the only family member that cares for me, betting on him is my way of repaying him back."  
The Princess wandered to the window, cracking it open slightly to stare out at the courtyard, no doubt wondering when she could head home. She must be tired of all this snow after all. He almost thought he saw her shiver.

Tyrion found himself curious about the nature of her relationship to the Starks. Last he'd seen her, she was teaching the youngest daughter how to kill a man, something that didn't strike him as Lady Stark approved.

He also knew that the Martells themselves had as much an issue with the Starks as they did with the Lannisters. Not nearly as vitriolic, but close to it. After all, it had been Lyanna Stark Rhaegar had looked to instead of his lady wife.

But things had appeared to be on the mend, especially if one bought that horseshit tale about Doran betrothing Nymeria to Robb Stark.

Her presence at the Wall already ripped that thin story to shreds.

"My Uncle Oberyn competes in tourneys," She spoke up, as if reminiscing about a fond memory, "Every time he competed, without fail, he would approach me and my cousin and ask for our favor." The Princess sighed as her deep gaze fell on Tyrion once more, "I would giggle and then give it to him. It felt wrong to support anyone else except my family."

Tyrion nodded, glad that she seemed to believe him. Drawing her cloak closer to her, she moved toward the door, her hand hovering over the doorknob. She hesitated before turning back to him, "How do I know you didn't hire Baelish?"

Tyrion cocked his head. It was a fair question, one that he would've asked if he was in her position. The Princess was smarter than she let on.

He gestured to himself, "Dwarves have a natural kinship with cripples and bastards," He explained, hoping it would be enough to sway her, "I may be a Lannister, but I'm not cruel."

The Princess nodded and the door creaked open, her figure disappearing in the shadows of the hallway. Tyrion collapsed back on his chair, eyes never leaving the dragonbone dagger.

**JON SNOW**

"Do you think she's staying?" Grenn asked, his gaze stuck on the Dornish Princess. Jon followed it, trying to read the lips of both her and the Lord Commander. Whatever was being said was not making the Princess happy.

"I doubt it," Jon spoke up, turning away from the sight to organize the armory again, "She's too important to bother with the likes of us."

"Why's she even here in the first place?" Pyp asked, eager to try and figure out more about her, "There's nothing for her kind in the north,"

The steel slammed on the wood and Jon whirled around, anger rising in his belly at his new brother, "She was sent here by Lady Stark," Jon practically spat out, "I'm sure it has nothing to do with the Night's Watch."  
Pyp seemed to sense how his words had been received, while Grenn ducked his head, moving out of the armory to catch another glimpse of Nymeria.

They hadn't seen a woman in a month. Their vows would forbid them from seeing women in the near future. No doubt they wanted her to stay for less than honorable reasons.

Jon could only shake the idea from his head. She would be returning home sooner rather than later. To entertain otherwise would be a fantasy.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't want it. That the thought of being around her had gotten him more excited in moons.

She had been the only one outside of his siblings to give him the time of day, and their conversations had almost been enough to make him stay. To forsake his original idea of heading to the Wall and joining her in Dorne.

Plus, she was rather easy on the eyes.

But he had a duty now. He couldn't be distracted. And he wasn't stupid enough to think the Lord Commander would let a woman stay at the Wall.

"It's still rather strange," Pyp continued, "I mean, I don't think I've ever seen the Lord Commander that frustrated with anyone."

Jon chuckled at the sight. Commander Mormont was shaking the piece of parchment in Princess Nymeria's face, his pale complexion getting redder by the moment.

"He'll turn into a Weirwood tree if he's not careful," Jon japed, relaxing in the company of his new brothers. Things had gotten easier since he'd taken the dwarf's advice and befriended them instead of isolating himself.

He started to believe he could build a life here.

The chuckling seized when Commander Mormont pushed the letter into the Princess's chest, turning away and retreating to the Lord Commander's keep, leaving Nymeria and her sworn sword alone on the balcony while the rest of the Night's Watch waited to see what would happen.

Jon's eyes narrowed at the Princess as she held her head high, descending the stairs. The crowd seemed to part for her as she made her way over to Jon and his friends, a tight smile on her face and she played with the parchment in her hands.

"I suppose this isn't the last time we'll be seeing each other Jon Snow," Nymeria spoke sardonically, handing him the letter she and Commander Mormont had been arguing about.

Jon raised his eyebrows at her. He wasn't family, he didn't even know her that well. But people were staring, and he gulped.

Unfurling the paper, he read the slanted writing with his own eyes, Grenn and Pyp leaning over his shoulder. The broken wax was a bright orange, a sun and spear displaying which House it came from.

_To Lord Commander Mormont,_

_My brother and I have recently been made aware of the current plight of the Night's Watch up at the Wall. We wish to send men of our own, however, until we learn the exact details of the issues facing the Watch, we must wait to fulfill that request._

_I will be stationing my niece Nymeria up at the Wall for insight into what exactly the Watch needs. I am sure you shall find a use for her. When I have received sufficient information I will send a raven with my decision._

_Thank you for your accommodations,_

_Prince Doran Martell_

_Prince of Dorne_

_Lord of Sunspear_

Jon's eyes grew wide, while Pyp and Grenn's mouth fell open as they re-read the letter again. "No wonder Commander Mormont was pissed," Pyp spoke up, meeting Nymeria's stone gaze. Grenn nodded in agreement, "Dangling men like that with no official offer,"

Jon still couldn't believe what he had read. He was still processing it.

"So what does this mean?" He finally asked, trying not to get his hopes up. The letter seemed to imply an extended stay, but Nymeria was a Princess. Didn't that mean she got to do what she liked?  
Nymeria shrugged. "My Uncle sent that two weeks into my stay at Winterfell," She bit her lip before continuing, "He has always been vague about his plans," She scoffed, indicating her clear dislike for the sneaky nature of the man, "But this seems absolutely absurd, stationing me up here."

The three men offered sympathetic gazes, with two of them knowing how awful it was to stay up here with no option of returning home. And based on the contents of Prince Doran's letter, it was looking like Nymeria was facing the same problem.

Despite that, Jon could see that Grenn and Pyp's excitement was palpable. The three of them shared a smirk before turning back toward the small woman before them. "Well," Grenn was the first to speak, entering into a deep bow, "Welcome to the Night's Watch, your highness. We're at your service."

Pyp followed suit and the small gesture seemed to bring a genuine smile back to her face. Jon chuckled at the behavior of his brothers, his own lips twisting upward into a smile.

He shook his head, eyes flitting forward and colliding with Nymeria's, which now held a playful gleam in them.

"And what about you Snow?" She asked, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows teasingly, "Do I have your loyalty as well?"

Jon's heart beat against his chest, constricting slightly at her words. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he straightened his posture, "You always had it, Princess,"

That seemed to make her smile, and Jon felt pressure lift off his chest. It suited her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, I know the 'girl staying at the wall' is an overused plot and kinda contrived (but come on, we all know Doran has plans for Jon). Besides, I think Mormont is so desperate for men at this point that it works. 
> 
> Also, the Nymeria/Robb scene is one of my favs and I wish we got more of them. And we got Tyrion telling his side of the story! If a Martell believes him, then perhaps it's possible Catelyn will? Maybe?
> 
> As always, please leave a comment or kudos if you're enjoying the story!!


	7. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nymeria and Oberyn make plans. Tyrion says goodbye to the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in fact alive. Sorry this one took a bit longer to post, I'm running out of pre-written chapters, and I don't wanna make you guys wait. 
> 
> Thank you all for the love and support and the reviews you leave! I'm glad to see people are still sticking around haha. Thank you for reading this!

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

The letter in her hand burned. Her Uncle's message had been a welcome sight during her first day at the Wall, but here she was a week later and now she could only feel shame. He had charged her with seeking information, and she had sent it to him, but it wouldn't be what he wanted to hear.

Tyrion Lannister was innocent in the Stark boy's murder, he was even innocent in her mother's murder, but he was their kin. He was a member of the family she had been brought up to hate.

But she could find no lie in his face when he recited his story.

He even eyed the knife with a kind of curiosity, wondering what it could be doing this far north, no doubt.

She was supposed to be helping her family, but what she had done was just the opposite.

She could lie, she realized.

It was a dangerous ploy, but it would work. But was it right?

No, it wasn't. It was a cheap move, and one that would cost her if word ever got out about the truth. A war would possibly break out, and despite her feelings about the Lady and the Kingslayer, Tyrion had been kind to her and treated her with respect.

He wasn't like his siblings. He wasn't like his father.

But he was a Lannister.

She dropped her head into her hands. Arianne was much better with this sort of thing. With one stroke of her pen, she would have a decision made.

Whether it was right or not didn't matter to her, as long as it helped her father. But here Nymeria was. And two sides were fighting for dominance.

Family Duty Honor, she recalled the Tully words. Catelyn Stark lived and breathed them, and somehow they had passed through her to her children as well. And now they had been the first ones to enter her mind. Instead of her own house words. Instead of anyone else's. Family came first. Family had always come first. Ink stained the page as it dripped from her quill.

She was patient yes, but how patient? Could she wait for Doran to plan his royal marriage? Could she wait for her own turn? When he would really marry her to Robb Stark to gain Winterfell to his cause?

She didn't know if she could. But she did know one thing.

This would speed things up. Doran would have to put his plan into motion if the Lannisters and Starks were moving against each other.

It would create an opening. Ned Stark would already cause enough chaos in King's Landing, what was the harm in enacting their plan a little earlier?

Her thoughts flitted toward Jon, and the vow he wanted to take. Once he took it, Doran's plan would be finished. She didn't know what her uncle had in store for the young bastard, but she was certain it didn't involve swearing himself to this cold hell for all eternity. His freedom would be gone. And then she would be called back to Dorne.

Back to summer seas and spars with her cousins. But Jon Snow would still be up here, freezing his ass off and battling ghosts.

Perhaps she could convince him to come to Dorne with her when she left. Oberyn would whine endlessly about harboring a Stark bastard, but even he couldn't say no to a new sparring partner. Arianne would have her way with him before long, and Doran's plan would still be in motion.

 _Yes_ , she fantasized, _Dorne would be good for Jon Snow._

But something inside her knew that it would be nothing more than a dream in her head. A fantasy.

But the paper before her was real. She had a choice to make, and she already knew what it would be before her fingers glided across the page, writing the damned sentence as quickly as possible. Tyrion Lannister may have nothing to do with Bran Stark's attempted murder, but there was a better scapegoat before her. Someone hot-tempered and impatient and potentially at the scene of the crime. 

As she finished up her letter to Doran, she pulled out another piece of parchment, rewriting the same words but a different name. It would do no good to have Lady Stark know the truth. Not when a war provided the opening Doran needed to enact his plan. 

"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," she recited, quickly rolling up the letters and sealing them with black wax and a blank stamp. No sigil to be seen. Nothing to tie her or her family back to what she was about to do.

She was a Martell. A viper bred in the sandpits of Dorne. She would guard her family with her life, and that meant there were no exceptions. 

She watched the raven carry her words, and silently prayed to the seven that she had made the right choice.

But she knew it was futile. The seven couldn't hear her up here.

**OBERYN MARTELL**

The glaring gazes of the twin sphinxes towered over him, bearing into his own as he sauntered through the gates, the bright candles lining both sides of the hall illuminating the way toward the Scribe's Hearth.

Oberyn had never willingly visited this room unless he needed to pass through it. The artificial sun hung above him, casting a red and yellow glow on the stalls of the scribes, where they sat patiently, scratching quills on parchment the only sound in the room.

He pressed forward until he reached the statue of Dareon Targaryen, with his massive sword pointed toward Dorne. Oberyn stared at the statue for a while. It was a great likeness, or so they said. Dareon had brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms through marriage, and now Doran was attempting to recreate that.

It was why he had passed over Arianne for Quentyn, it was why he had sent Oberyn here.

The viper huffed as he moved down the split path toward the Grand Library, where thousands of books were carefully shelved and put away in exactly the right spot. The desks were near spotless. Oberyn sauntered up to the desk, eyeing the blonde novice currently recording the movements and routines of the Maesters, and looking bored out of his mind.

Oberyn smirked, gaze lingering on the slim figure and his clean-shaven face, a pair of wide blue eyes blinking slowly every once in a while before flying up to meet Oberyn's black ones, the novice's face going red.

"C-can I help you Ser?" He stuttered out, his quill shaking in his hand as Oberyn towered over him, never taking his gaze off the young man. Oh if only the Red Viper was a green boy again, he mused.

Oberyn instead gestured to the library, "I'm seeking the journal of High Septon Maynard," he spoke clearly, his smirk hiding his intentions, "Rumor has it, he recorded everything in his life."

The novice quickly scrambled up, swallowing his nerves as he led Oberyn through the towering bookshelves, a deep cavernous pit revealing more books on the lower levels, truly revealing the wealth of knowledge the Maester's possessed.

Oberyn recalled the six links he himself had earned, and how much shit he had to sift through before he finally found what he was looking for.

Before he finally earned his place.

It had been humbling and irritating at the same time, and had done nothing for his pride. Studying at the Citadel had only opened his eyes, realizing how deep and corrupt the order truly was. Lord Hightower had his claws in deep, and the Archmaesters cared little for the qualms of the world, content to remain in their towers like the cowards they served.

The Reach was filled with men like them. And the Tyrells were the worst of them.

Their Lord was ambitious, but did not know the value of secrecy. And they were content to sit at the sidelines, never picking a side unless it was the winning one.

And it made Oberyn steam.

Mace Tyrell was lucky it was Lord Yrnwood Oberyn had dishonored and not him.

"Here it Ser," The novice pulled out a thick tome, its spine cracked and cover dusty. The novice's hands shook as he handed it to Oberyn, who gladly tucked it under his arm and thanked the boy, quickly searching for his old reading alcove.

There were few open, most occupied by young novices and maesters earning their links, but Oberyn was looking for a very particular one. It was hidden in the deepest corner of the library, where no one would ever find him unless they wished to navigate the deep labyrinths of the Citadel.

Hardly any light reached it, which was why a stack of candles was always placed nearby. Oberyn was quick to light one, and settled into the wooden chair, hardly a sound made as he cracked open the tome, resting it on his knee. He leaned back and plucked a fruit from his robes, biting into it as his hands ran themselves over the pages, searching for the exact dates he had been looking for. When he found it, his relaxed stance disappeared, and he moved the book onto the desk, candle wax dripping onto the edges of the pages as he leaned forward, eyes scanning every word.

The quiet settled over him rather comfortably, and Oberyn contented himself with reading about the High Septon counting the steps in the Citadel once more, as well as how many ravens he had sent out that day. There was a series of numbers near the top, growing increasingly greater as the pages moved.

Oberyn realized it was a count of the days. Of how many days winter had plagued them. But they were lower, despite the year indicating otherwise. Oberyn remembered that winter, and how warm it had been compared to previous years.

People had thought spring had come. And when he turned the page, he realized why the numbers were lower.

Loopy handwriting that didn't belong to High Septon Maynard had retroactively placed a title on this particular month. The last months of the year.

**279 AC: The False Spring**

Oberyn's blood ran hot as he read the page over and over again, wanting to tear it out and throw it into the fire.

He wanted the satisfaction of watching the words curl in on themselves and burn, but he settled for tearing the passage out of the book completely, stuffing it into his chest pocket and closing the book again.

He strode out of the alcove, flexing his fingers involuntarily until they curled into a fist, slamming the High Septon's journal down on the desk of the novice, dust rising as he did.

Oberyn glared at the boy. It wasn't his fault. He couldn't control the information the Maesters collected. But it angered him all the same.

Oberyn puffed his chest up and took his leave, eyes following him. And he made sure everyone knew the Red Viper of Dorne had visited the libraries of the Citadel.

It wasn't part of Doran's plan, but Doran's plan was failing.

Doran's plan relied on the support of a House that had humiliated their sister.

Doran's plan relied on sending their last reminder of Elia north, surrounded by wolves that would not support her. Surrounded by people who would jest and jape and sneer because she wasn't pale like the rest of them.

Doran's plan relied on his support, but Oberyn wasn't sure he wanted to support his brother anymore.

Not after this.

**TYRION LANNISTER**

The Valyrian steel blade dug into the rotting wood of his desk in his room, illustrating the need for both men and materials at the Wall.

Right now he was trying to solve a puzzle. In which the central piece involved the dagger he was spinning in his hand, while the missing one evaded him.

Who sent it?

What would Littlefinger gain from murdering Bran Stark?

Could Cersei have paid Littlefinger?

It made no logical sense for her to do so. She would be in Littlefinger's debt, not to mention her and Jaime's exploits would be looked into. Tyrion sighed. His siblings were more trouble than they were worth sometimes.

He'd known about them for years. Oh, his siblings always thought they were so clever, getting away with a secret that would stain their house right under their father's nose.

He supposed it was some sort of sick satisfaction, knowing that at any point all could be revealed and the reputation Tywin Lannister had built their house upon would crumble.

Tyrion smiled at the thought.

The knife clattered to the ground as it slipped out of his grip, and he was pulled back to the matter at hand.

It would do no good trying to solve it without proper resources. Without observing the other pieces of the puzzle first.

He chuckled mirthlessly, perhaps it was a good thing he was headed back to the capital after all.

Tyrion peered underneath his desk, realizing that the dagger had fallen quite far out of his reach. Sighing, he hopped off the chair, his back exploding in pain as he did. The strained grunt he released was not unfamiliar, and soon he found himself on all fours, crawling toward the dagger to grab it before someone saw him.

Unfortunately, lady luck was not on his side. A pair of boots appeared on the other side of the desk, a feminine laugh accompanying them.

Tyrion rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the dagger, relief flooding through him as his back relaxed. But before he could try to regain his dignity, a familiar pair of russet eyes entered his vision, the Martell Princess's smile widening at the sight before her.

"You need some help there Lord Tyrion?" She asked, unable to keep the mirth out of her voice. Tyrion sighed and tried to keep his composure.

"Not at all," He replied, "Although I do appreciate the gesture, Your Highness,"

Nymeria shook her head and stood up again, and while Tyrion was glad she wasn't taking this chance to wound his pride further, he had no doubt the Princess was enjoying it all the while.

Everyone enjoyed it when he fell.

Tyrion finally came out from underneath the desk and straightened up, ignoring the foolish feeling that was creeping up.

No doubt Nymeria was eating everything up, itching to write all about how Lord Tyrion Lannister had embarrassed himself trying to fetch a dagger.

But when he met her gaze, he thought he saw something else. Sympathy perhaps? No, he realized. It was pity.

The only thing he hated more than humiliation.

"I did offer to help you know," She smiled, and Tyrion nodded his head, placing the dagger back on the desk. He watched the Princess's eyes flicker toward the weapon before meeting his own again.

"A gesture I am greatly appreciative of," Tyrion replied quickly, still not trusting the girl. Who's to say she truly believed him about the dagger? What was stopping her from spreading her own version of the truth to Catelyn Stark, telling her that Tyrion had in fact, sent the dagger? Finally getting the revenge she craved.

Nymeria sent him a small smile, fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. It was quite alarming really, how unfamiliar the woman was with the cold.

Winter would not be kind to her.

"So what is a Princess of Dorne doing checking up on the Dwarf of Casterly Rock?" Tyrion asked, trying to keep a cheery disposition. Nymeria chuckled slightly, almost nervous.

"Jon Snow mentioned that you wanted to piss off the edge of the world," She replied, a smirk on her face as she parroted his words, "I assumed you wanted company."

Tyrion raised his brow, "And how do you mean to piss off the Wall my princess?" He japed, gesturing between his legs, "I think it would be rather difficult without a cock."

Nymeria's chuckle morphed into a guffaw and she uncrossed her arms, "You're right Lord Tyrion," She continued to laugh, her hand drifting to her belly as her shoulders shook, "I suppose I shall have to procure one."

Tyrion soon found himself laughing alongside her, although it was more of a chuckle than anything. Tension dissipated from his shoulders as an unguarded smile drifted across his face.

"Well then," He began, gesturing toward the door, "Shall we go see what's at the edge of the world?"

Nymeria eyed him once again, but unlike her other stares, this seemed to be merely out of curiosity. She was fidgeting again. Nymeria stopped when she felt his gaze on her and let him lead the way.

After descending the stairs of the King's Tower, Tyrion cursed his legs once again.

They were cramping up, badly, and he was certain he could not tackle the Wall steps. But Nymeria was already at the winch cage, opening the door for him. She knew. Tyrion realized as she slid in next to him. The Princess knew what it was like for someone like him.

He eyed her up, searching for any physical pain she may have been feeling. If she was like him, she hid it well.

Perhaps she inherited Princess Elia's health, he thought. That would have been enough to cripple any woman, and it had been the reason Rhaegar himself had sought out the Stark girl, if stories were to be believed.

"My Uncle Doran," She said, as if reading his mind. Her eyes turned sad as she met Tyrion's mismatched ones, "We found out about the gout the same time he did,"

Suddenly it made sense. Nymeria knew how to care for someone in pain because she had already done it.

She sighed and looked out over Castle Black. Tyrion wondered if she was looking out toward Dorne. "Arianne and I began to care for him those first few months," She confessed, smiling slightly, "He could still walk then. But when Maester Caleotte brought in that awful contraption…"

Tyrion was suddenly struck with the urge to comfort the young woman beside him. She hadn't willingly sought confrontation since their conversation her first day at the Wall, and she seemed to have a sense of humor. Which was more than he could say for most of the brothers.

"Arianne and I couldn't stand to look at him after that," Nymeria confessed, voice threatening to crack. It felt wrong, Tyrion mused, like he was witnessing a sinner in a sept. "To see the man who raised both of us, the Prince of Dorne, reduced to little more than a man in a chair. Unable to even move on his own."

Tyrion tasted the bitterness on his tongue. How well-loved Prince Doran was despite his affliction. How his own family still accepted him until it began to manifest physically. It only served to remind Tyrion why he was so despised everywhere he went.

But he said none of that to the dejected woman beside him. Instead, he cleared this throat, gently placing his hand on her arm, almost reaching her shoulder.

It was all he could do. "Your Uncle is lucky to have a niece like you."

Her gaze almost broke him. Dark pooling into something softer, almost resembling gratitude.

Tyrion snatched his hand away at the sight, as if he had been burned.

He didn't deserve her gratitude. Not in this way.

They continued their ride in silence, staring out over the crumbling towers and mountains of stone, the bright lights of Mole's Town drowned out by the full moon hanging above them. If Tyrion squinted, he could almost catch sight of Winterfell, but he knew that it was mere imagination.

They were too far north.

The winch stopped at the top, the cage swinging from the rope, but the Princess did not look afraid. Tyrion, however, finally became aware of just how high the Wall truly was. His breath quickened as the wind brushed through his hair, unable to look away from the ground beneath the cage.

The door swung open to reveal a giant slab of ice. The top of the Wall. The two black brothers stared at the two visitors, Their faces obscured by scarves and the hoods of their cloaks. They needed them up here, Tyrion thought. Nymeria pulled her cloak closer to her, the leather and wool could only do so much. And while her blood may run warm, it would freeze before long if she stayed.

She was fragile, and she would break before long. They all did.

The cold bit at him, stinging his face and turning his nose red. He buried his hands deeper into his cloak, watching his companion do the same.

The ice was slick beneath their feet, stones providing traction as they crunched under their boots.

They moved west, several paces away from the winch when a white blur ambushed the Princess, almost tackling her to the ground. Nymeria's eyes widened and she let out a small yelp before Ghost backed off, wagging his tail excitedly. It almost looked like it was smiling. Tyrion eyed the direwolf curiously, and soon a voice followed.

"Ghost!" Jon Snow appeared from behind an abandoned catapult, relief flooding the bastard's face when he caught sight of his pet, "I'm terribly sorry princess," His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, and soon Ghost was back at the bastard's side, Jon scratching his ear before straightening up again.

"No need to apologize," Nymeria quickly dismissed Jon's concerns, "Hello Ghost," She greeted the direwolf, a smile gracing her face as Jon led them to the fire, closer to the edge of the wall, but far enough away to remain safe.

The Haunted Forest stretched out before him, surrounded by a sea of snow and ice. White and Black clashing against each other. The latter reflecting the bright light and the former swallowing it into oblivion. Few men ever entered that awful wood, and fewer came out.

Tyrion, however, was more interested in watching the interaction of the Princess and the Bastard. He chuckled to himself. It almost sounded like one of those songs Jaime had been obsessed with in his youth. A bastard rising up to become worthy enough to earn the hand of the princess he loves.

He shook his head. Life was not a song. And Jon Snow was a man of the Night's Watch, sworn to take no vows and father no children. While Nymeria was a Princess of Dorne, catering to the whims of Uncles who only saw their sister in her.

Tyrion unlaced his breeches and tried to take his mind off everything. He came up here to accomplish a goal, and he would accomplish it, heights be damned.

"I'm sorry to see you leave, Lannister," Jon called out to him, a smirk on his face and a matching one on Nymeria's.

Tyrion stuffed his manhood back into his breeches, lacing them up as he turned toward Jon again. "It's either me or this cold." He said, head gesturing to the weather, "And it doesn't appear to be going anywhere."

"I wish I could join you," The princess spoke up, her gaze darkening once again as she stared at the flames. The fire made her glow, and it almost looked as if it was swallowing her up, so close the flames licked her skin. "The north is no place for a viper,"

"On the contrary, Princess," Tyrion flattered, partly as a jest, "I think it suits you quite nicely,"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes before trying to launch a small kick his way, although Tyrion suspected it was more in jest than anything.

Jon chuckled alongside them, turning back to Tyrion, although the dwarf didn't miss how his eyes seemed to linger on the girl, "Will you stop at Winterfell on your way South?"

He nodded, "I expect I will. Gods know there aren't many feather beds between here and King's Landing."

Nymeria chuckled again, and Jon turned solemn.

"if you see my brother Bran…" The bastard began, pausing as he bit his chapped bottom lip, "Help him, Tyrion,"  
He was taken aback by the request. "What help can I give him?" Tyrion asked, genuinely wondering what Jon Snow expected him to do, "I am no maester, I have no spells to give him back his legs."

"You gave me help when I needed it," Jon said, as if that were enough justification.

Tyrion sighed, those were only words. "Words, Snow, I gave you words."

Nymeria spoke up next, "Words are enough," She continued to stare into the flames, no doubt worrying about her Uncle, "When actions are unavailable, words are all one needs."

Tyrion bowed his head, mulling over the thesis in his brain. Brandon Stark would never walk again. He was a cripple now. A rich cripple, but a cripple all the same. And Tyrion's heart panged. "I know what it is like to love a brother. I'll do whatever's in my power to help Bran. However small it may be."  
Jon's eyes seemed to well up at the sentiment, but the boy shoved it away, reaching out his hand, "Thank you, Lord Lannister," He paused, something on the edge of his tongue, "Friend."

Something stirred in Tyrion's chest at the word. Friend. It was so simple, so mundane, yet it had rendered Tyrion speechless. He pulled off his glove, skin exposed to the frosty air around him and he grasped Jon's open hand. Flesh sunk into flesh, warmth passing from one man to another in a grip as strong as the ice they stood on.

When he let go, Tyrion turned to the other constant during his trip North. "Princess Nymeria," He spoke loudly, pulling his glove back on as he reached toward his belt.

"I hope you're not thinking of shaking my hand with your glove on," She japed, a twinkle in her eye.

Tyrion chuckled slightly and shook his head, "No, I have something much more important for you." He pulled the catspaw dagger from his belt, handing it to the Princess, hilt first, in a show of peace. He had grown rather fond of her in the few days he'd known her, and despite the bad blood between their houses, he wished to mend it.

The fates of Elia and her children were a tragedy, and a grotesque one at that. Nymeria had been lucky to escape with the spider. Lucky, Tyrion scoffed. A word often used in tandem with the princess. To call her lucky discredited her.

The Princess eyed him before taking it in her hands, twirling it. "Thank you, my lord," She replied, "Although I am unsure why you think I deserve such a gift."

"Consider it an olive branch," Tyrion spoke carelessly, like it had been a spur of the moment decision, "The first steps in trying to achieve peace between our two houses."

Nymeria scoffed and placed the dagger on her hip, "You're very kind Lord Lannister, kinder than most of your kin," Her lips pressed themselves into a thin line, "But the only peace we want is justice for my mother's death. Until then, there cannot be any peace between us."

"A righteous cause, princess," Tyrion rebuffed, "But I do hope there can at least be goodwill between the two of us."

Nymeria's tightness disappeared, replaced with a small smile as she looked at the dwarf, something glistening in her gaze. "Then you shall have it, my lord."

Relief flooded through Tyrion. He would find no vipers in his bed when he returned. No poison in his cups. The Starks he could not say, but Nymeria's assurance had given him peace of mind, for a time.

He nodded and excused himself, Nymeria choosing to stay behind with Jon, claiming that she wished to see more of the edge of the world. But with how Ghost was cozying up to her, Tyrion briefly wondered if there was more behind her decision.

"Lord Tyrion!" She called, whirling around when he was halfway to the winch. Her eyes were wide, lips downturned into something akin to worry. But Tyrion was sure he hallucinated it. "I hear there is turmoil in the capital, perhaps you ought to head to Casterly Rock first to avoid such unpleasantness."

The warning was well-veiled, hidden in plain sight for Tyrion to analyze and deconstruct. Lady Catelyn would be headed up the Kingsroad from King's Landing. "Thank you for the concern, my princess," Tyrion responded, truly meaning his words, "I should like to pay my lord father a visit."

Jon Snow's forehead creased, and when the two huddled together once again, Tyrion began to descend, drawing his cloak closer and sorely missing the warmth of the princess beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion's part of this chapter was one of my favorites to write and read. I love writing his POV so much, it just feels so nice to write someone who knows what's going on for a change haha. 
> 
> NGL, I'm a bit worried about Nymeria and Oberyn's POV, I tried to keep them as in character as possible, but Oberyn is one of the hardest POVs for me to write so please DM me with constructive criticism if you have any regarding someone's characterization! I wanted to show a more ruthless and intelligent side to Nymeria, especially since she's one of the only ones privy to Doran's plan regarding the Starks and marrying Arianne off. 
> 
> As always, let me know your theories and if you enjoyed the chapter in a review!! Thank you for reading!


	8. No Son of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Nymeria meet a new member of the watch.

** JON SNOW **

Grenn was just starting to get the hang of a side strike when heavy footsteps entered the yard.

"Leg, shoulder, leg." Jon instructed, performing the maneuver before stepping aside to let Grenn try, "Left foot forward. Good. Now pivot as you deliver the stroke. Put all your weight behind it."

Nymeria was watching with a smile on her face as she leaned against the armory. It always made him more nervous when she was watching. She had trained with the Red Viper of Dorne, and she knew how to exploit a man's weakness better than anyone else in the castle. Jon knew it was probably in support, but every time she needed to step in to correct a mistake they made, he found himself wishing she'd stayed in her room instead.

Jon sent a frustrated look her way and she shook her head, slightly chuckling. Her smile dropped into a frown, narrowing her gaze at something behind Jon, straightening up off the pillar to get a better look.

"What in seven hells is that?"

Jon whirled around at Grenn's exclamation, finding himself standing across a short boy with a rotund stomach, spilling over his buckled belt, the leather stretching and nearly breaking under the pressure. His night's watch armor squeezed him tightly, leather panels worked in to let the boy breathe, his chins drowning out the rest of his features and hiding the velvet and fur choking his neck.

"You're from the Reach," Nymeria spoke up, pressing forward until she was by Grenn's side, eyeing him up and down.

The boy squirmed underneath her gaze, stammering as his gaze drifted toward Ser Alliser, who nodded at the group, "Tell them your name" He ordered the boy.

"Samwell Tarly," He spoke shyly, as if he'd had to repeat it a thousand times, "Of Horn Hill, I mean, I was of Horn Hill," He fumbled over his words and pity struck Jon's chest, "I've come to take the black."

Rast sniggered, and crossed his arms, "Come to take the black pudding,"

Jon rolled his eyes as he watched Samwell sink back into himself. Rast had been on the few brothers Jon hadn't been able to win over yet. He was rude, crass, and refused to get along with anyone.

Ser Alliser inspected the new recruit with abhorrence, like he was a man displeased with his food at an inn rather than the Master at Arms ready to train a new recruit. "Well, you couldn't be any worse than you look," Ser Alliser spoke, looking back at the other recruits, "See what he can do."

Rast's face lit up in a gleeful sneer, and he moved forward, Sam's legs wobbling underneath him as he readied his sword.

His stance was wide enough and his leading foot was ready to move backward, defensively. He had been trained to be on the defense. Jon realized. His legs were bent too low, his arm ready to protect his face.

Rast brought the sword down on the padded leather, Sam dropping the sword almost instantly to protect his face. The blows were strong and soon Sam was down on his knees, bruises already forming on his face. His voice a small whine as he yelled, "I yield! I yield!"

Ser Alliser wasn't done yet, and only rolled his eyes, like this was boring him. "On your feet, pick up your sword," He commanded, and when Sam disobeyed, Ser Alliser turned to Rast once again, sighing "Hit him till he finds his feet,"

Rast's blows were sloppy, striking the back or the cheeks with barely any strength behind them, but when Ser Alliser's taunts grew louder, Rast's blows grew harder. The recruit let out a deafening screech, and when Rast moved to strike again, Jon surged forward.

Steel met steel, but Jon was nowhere near the new boy. Instead, Pyp had held him back and Nymeria stood over Sam's trembling figure, knives glinting in the sunlight as they caught Rast's sword.

"Enough," She ordered, every bit a princess, a cold glare thrown at Ser Alliser, "I thought the Night's Watch was supposed to be honorable, turns out you're nothing but cowards."

Rast's mouth popped open at the insult and he turned to Ser Alliser, who had stiffened, his shoulders taut like a bowstring.

He pressed forward, his figure towering over Nymeria's before gesturing to someone behind him, "I believe the Princess is tired, please escort her back to the King's Tower."

"Yes, m'lord," The voice came from Daeron, who was quick to grab Nymeria's arm and take her, his strength far outweighing her own.

"the princess is fine," She snarled. Ser Alliser only called in more of his own, another recruit named Halder seizing her as well. He was a stonemason, and she would be unable to break free from his grip. Jon wanted to do something, but he had defied Ser Alliser enough times, and he needed the respect of his brothers.

 _Is it worth it to sit around and watch them beat up their own brother?_ Were those the people Jon was meant to serve and fight alongside?

The Imp's words came back to him. _"Not impressed with your new brothers?"_

Jon watched her struggle across the courtyard, hitting and yelling in a manner similar to Arya when she was being dragged away by the Septa. It was not a pretty sight, and he couldn't blame her. Jon sighed as he turned back to the scene in front of him, watching as Ser Alliser stepped back and nodded at Rast.

"Again," He ordered, sneering at Sam, "Harder."

Both of his hands were on the sword now, his full strength behind the blows, and when Sam screeched once again, Jon knew his choice.

"Enough!" He called out, and the courtyard froze, Halder and Daeron froze with it, while Grenn and Pyp looked on, anxious for him. Jon ignored them, "He yielded."

Ser Alliser bristled, and Rast's smile fell. Jon moved to help Sam to his feet, pushing the boy behind him.

"Looks like the bastard's in love." Ser Alliser taunted, his onyx eyes fixed on Jon, the twitch of his cheek giving him away, "All right then, lord Snow, you wish to defend your lady love, let's make it an exercise. You two." He pointed at Halder and Daeron, who abandoned their post reluctantly, "Three of you ought to be sufficient to make lady piggy squeal. All you've got to do is get past the bastard." The two boys sent him apologetic looks, and Jon knew that he was going to be paying for this defiance. His bruises would be worse than they had been previously. He resigned himself to the inevitability and readied his sword.

"Get past the bastard and the princess," Nymeria's voice spoke from beside him, grabbing a sword from the ground and tightening her grip on the hilt. It was awkward and too close to the balance point, but he appreciated the extra hands.

Pyp and Grenn moved beside him as well, and soon four outnumbered three.

Jon lowered his voice, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Nymeria nodded, her throat bobbing up and forth as she stared at Ser Alliser, her eyes narrowed, "Daeron injured his left foot yesterday," She told him, and Jon understood. Halder and Rast were the powerhouses, but Daeron would be clumsy, the easiest to take out first.

He swung his sword downward, slapping the steel against Daeron's leg, using the hilt to knock him down and force him to yield. Grenn was utilizing the side swing Jon had taught him, while Pyp kept dodging the swings, tiring out Halder enough to land a side strike. Nymeria was facing Rast, whose movements grew clumsier with each step. She blocked his strike and ducked, his sword almost catching the tail end of her braid, she slipped around again and metal clanged against metal, the two of them dancing to the song of steel. A loud "I yield!" Was heard and Halder was on the ground.

Only Rast was left.

Jon moved in, two swords against one as the boy struggled against the new movements he was being presented with. One was a dance, the other what he knew. His sword swung wide, and Nymeria leapt out of the way, rolling toward Rast's side, striking her sword as hard as possible against his armor. Jon made the next move, his strength surging forward, splitting the armor. Rast cried out but did not yield. Ser Alliser was watching them, and Rast had something to prove. Jon snarled and pushed back against the boy, swinging his sword in an arc, the blade landing on Rast's shoulder. The recruit retaliated with a poorly timed lunge, and Jon swept his foot under the boy's, sending him flat on his ass.

Rast finally stumbled back, his hands pulling at the gravel as he lifted his hands up in surrender, Jon's blade nearing his throat, "Yield yield yield!" He whined, sounding like Sam when he had first started, "I yield."

Alliser pulled Rast up, a scowl across his face as he glared at the four recruits in front of him. "We're done for today," He barked, and Jon wanted to shrivel under his gaze, but he forced himself to stand tall. Ser Alliser may have no honor left, but Jon was teeming with it, and he wouldn't be turned into something he wasn't. Not while he breathed. "Go clean the armory, that's all you lot are good for."

He sent one last sneer at Nymeria before storming off, the courtyard clearing one by one.

Jon's breath blew a curl away from his face, and he held his hand out to Nymeria, who grasped it with an iron grip. He pulled her up, and she quickly wiped any dust from her breeches, handing him the sword, redness creeping up on her cheeks.

Jon chuckled, "Not used to a sword then?"

"My uncle trained me in all the weapons of my cousins," She explained, shaking her head, "A sword was not one of them."  
Amazement filled Jon's chest. Her skill with knives was unparalleled, but he was unaware of what else she possessed. Like her house, the princess was a mystery.

"Perhaps I could teach you," The words were out of his mouth before he could take them back, and he felt his jerkin grow tight around his neck again. "I—I mean—"

"I'd be honored," She cut him off, a soft smile on her face. Jon's shoulders relaxed, the tension melting like summer snow on the parapets of Winterfell. A heavy figure came into view, and Jon turned to meet the pale eyes of Samwell Tarly, the new recruit.

"Did he hurt you?" He asked, eyes pointed toward Jon, fidgeting when he noticed Nymeria's eyes on him.

Jon simply shrugged, "I've had worse," And it was true. Theon had given him more bruises in one day than his brothers had in a week. Something tugged in his gut at the thought of the Greyjoy boy, and Jon wondered if his absence had made Winterfell more bearable for the ward. Theon had always been closer to Robb anyway. But there had always been a sense of bitterness surrounding Theon, and Jon was certain that would never change.

Nymeria turned to the Tarly boy, arching her eyebrow curiously, "I'm Nymeria," She offered, making the first attempt at friendship.

The recruit smiled, and offered out his hand, his cheeks bright red, "You can call me Sam," He turned to Jon next, and he hesitated to shake his hand. Ser Alliser would only make life harder for him if he befriended the boy, but his chest constricted at the thought. His father raised him to be better than that, but by the time he reached out to shake the boy's hand it was back by his side. He had taken too long. "if you want, my mother calls me Sam."  
"I'm Jon Snow," He greeted back, a slight smile on his face, "This is Grenn and Pypar,"

The two boys lifted their hands and Pyp finally piped up, "You can call him Lord Snow, you don't wanna know what his mother calls him."

Jon shook his head, trying to bear his status with pride. _Wear it like armor_ , the Imp advised. Much easier said than done.

Grenn was the next one to speak up, his thick brows laced together, "Why didn't you get up and fight?"

Sam stiffened at his question and barely managed a shrug, the redness growing brighter, "I wanted to, I just couldn't."

"Why not?" Grenn kept pushing. Jon sent him a look. It was clear Sam was uncomfortable with the very idea.

His eyes flew to the ground, chins bobbing up and down as he swallowed. "I'm a coward," He admitted, shocking everyone he was speaking to, "My father always says so."

Jon had never met a self-proclaimed coward before. What was he doing at the Wall? Didn't he know what he was signing up for? It wouldn't do him any favors to blab about it.

"The Wall's no place for cowards," Jon warned.

"You're right, I'm sorry, I just…" Sam trailed off, his rushed words tumbling from his mouth. Shame crawled at Jon's belly. He didn't meant to insult the boy. "Wanted to thank you."

Gods now he felt even worse.

Nymeria went running after him, and Jon could only hang his head in shame.

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

She knew it wasn't smart. And it wasn't what she was here for, but something pushed her to run after the Tarly boy.

She found him hiding in the library, in the furthest corner, far away from anything or anyone who would bother him. Most men of the Watch couldn't read or write, it was a safe spot from anyone that would hurt him.

Sniffles echoed in her ears and she rounded the corner, finding the boy with his arms wrapped around his tucked knees, trying to wipe the fat tears that were falling down his cheeks.

And there it was again. The tugging in her chest. Asking her to reach out and help the boy in front of her. Her mouth turned down at the sight and she quickly slid down the wall to join him. He was tucked between two large bookcases, hidden by a much taller one.

"I didn't mean to get them in trouble," He blubbed, shaky breaths leaving his mouth, "I-I've never h-had people stand up f-for m-me before."  
Gods, what must that be like? To have kindness be such a rarity that it makes one so vulnerable?

She reached her arm out, trying to wrap around his shoulders but only reaching his neck instead. "It's not your fault." She tried to comfort him. A sweet lie was better than an awful truth.

"Yes, it is," He denied, tears still falling but breath evening out, "If I hadn't been so craven then you and Jon wouldn't have gotten in trouble with Ser Alliser."

Nymeria chuckled to herself. He was honest with himself at least. Of all his faults, Samwell Tarly knew who he was, and how the world saw him. "Ser Alliser would have found another way to punish us," She assured him, her lips twisting upward slightly, "He's rather cruel that way."

"Is it always like this?" Sam asked, and Nymeria finally saw the fear in his eyes. She shrugged, wishing she could be of more help. Her view of the North was biased, and Sam needed someone to reassure him.

"I don't know," She admitted, biting the inside of her cheek. "I've only been here a month. Jon would know better than I."

Sam shook his head, "Of course, I should have realized." He chastised himself. He did that a lot. "But he won't want to talk with me. Not after calling myself a coward."  
Nymeria disagreed. If anyone knew Sam's plight, it was Jon. From what she knew of him, he was not one to judge. "Jon's more open-minded than you think." Was all she said, hoping it was enough.

Sam nodded, appreciating her words. His tears had finally slowed to a stop and he let his knees fall to the floor, silence washing over the two of them.

"How'd you end up at the Wall anyway?" She finally asked, curious about the circumstances that would lead a self-proclaimed craven from the second warmest area in Westeros to take the black in the coldest place in Westeros.

Sam stiffened again, playing with his surcoat, the faded sigil showcasing a striding huntsman. At least he had come prepared. Like her.

And so she listened. She listened when he told her of the history of the house and their Valyrian steel sword. She listened when he began to shake at the mere mention of his father's name, and his fading pride as Sam grew older. She listened when Sam told her about his love of music and reading and dancing, despite his clumsy feet. Nymeria laughed at the sight of Sam dancing. He seemed to shake in the presence of any woman his age. Her included.

And then the words turned darker when he talked about the hunts. About how sick he was when he was forced to watch his father cut into a stag. The number of times his dinner went pouring out of him at the sight of blood. How a thousand master-at-arms and two warlocks from Qarth couldn't make him brave and strong. How when his mother had finally given birth to another son, Sam was all but tossed aside, and Lord Randyll Tarly spent every waking moment with the new boy, who grew up to be everything Sam was not.

"And then…" Sam trembled, his breathing shaky as he grasped tightly to the cloth of his breeches. Nymeria grabbed at his hand, silently encouraging him to continue with the story. "On my seventeenth name day, my father had saddled a horse and had me escorted to a wood, just outside of Horn Hill." Sam explained, grip tightening around Nymeria's tiny fingers, "He told me I had to take the black. So that Horn Hill could go to Dickon. And if I didn't he threatened to 'hunt me down like the pig I was"

Sam's tone was dead. His breathing still shaky. Eyes blankly staring into the library, but Nymeria's remained on the boy before her.

It made her gorge rise, and she wanted to leave the Wall this second and ride for Horn Hill. To find Randyll Tarly and skin him the way he had that deer. No child deserved what Sam had gone through.

No one in the world did. The Reach was filled with awful people, she now realized, and wished it had been Randyll Tarly Oberyn had ridden against that day, instead of Willas Tyrell.

"Your father," She began, drawing Sam's attention back to the present, "Deserves a fate worse than seven hells."

He began to laugh at that, and soon Nymeria joined him, the musical sound filling the empty room with joy as it rose up to the ceiling.

"What about you?" Sam asked, raising his brows curiously, "How did the Princess of Dorne find herself all the way up here?"  
Nymeria leaned against the Wall, chuckling mirthlessly, "Not by choice I'm afraid." She admitted, the weight returning to her shoulders. It nearly crushed her, but she would not let it. "My Uncle wants to support the Watch, so he sent me to send him reports."

That was as much as she would tell him. Her chest constricted at the thought of keeping secrets from Sam when he had been so open with her, but it was for her own good. Word of Doran's plan could not leave Dorne. And it did her nor the dornish any favors to be portrayed as schemers for the throne. They weren't the Lannisters.

"Tell me," Sam began, pausing slightly before forming the next words. Nymeria prepared herself for a barrage of questions, all of which she had prepared answers. She'd used them at Winterfell after all. "Does it ever get any warmer?"

Laughter burst from her lips, and she doubled over at the unexpected question, shoulders shaking. When he realized that she wasn't laughing with him, Sam joined in again.

Yes, she and Samwell Tarly would get along just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Nymeria and Sam so much!! That scene was so much fun to write and I can't wait to explore their relationship further. I hope I made it clear that Jon helped Sam because he wanted to and because he felt bad for him. I didn't want it to be because of Nymeria or anything else. 
> 
> Thank you for your guys' support! Please leave a comment if you're enjoying the story!


	9. Wolf At Your Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion returns home, Jon protects a friend, and the Game of Thrones weaves a complicated web.

** TYRION LANNISTER **

Casterly Rock was a sword hanging over his head, looming over him until someone cut the final cord. He had taken the Princess's advice, at least partially. The Kingsroad was unavoidable these days, as was the Riverlands themselves.

A dwarf dressed in the red and gold of Lannister garb would draw attention. But a dwarf in northern clothes with a plainer disposition would go unnoticed.

And so he had become Lann, the traveling mummer from the Free Cities until he had reached the Inn of the Kneeling Man. There he'd been pushed and shoved and japed at until he flashed the gold his family was known for.

Yoren laughed and corroborated his disguise, claiming that the Lord Commander had deemed him too short to join the Watch, although he made for a great jester.

Tyrion had laughed through gritted teeth, his mismatched eyes searching for Catelyn Stark, but not finding her. Perhaps she had already come through here, with her Northmen and her accusations, stoking a fire that needed to be put out.

His luck ran out the day he left. Yoren had gone after supper, and Tyrion's current companion was a sell-sword named Bronn, who he was certain was only spending time with him due to the gold in his pockets.

It had been the next morning when Tyrion decided to head in the direction of Casterly Rock, dread forming a knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having to face his father. Tyrion had asked Bronn to join him, to which the sell-sword merely shrugged.

And that had been when the Master of Arms of Winterfell had shown up, whiskers long and sad but his back proud and stiff.

Tyrion's breath grew quick and he spun on his heel, hoping his presence would go unnoticed. His plan fell apart when he tried to mount his horse, his foot cramping as it stuck itself in the stirrup. The pain shot through his legs and he let out a pained groan, collapsing to the ground, landing face-first in the muddy ground beneath him, tasting blood on his lips and swallowing dirt down his throat.

It dried out whatever moisture he had, and Tyrion found himself wishing for another cup of wine, but he kept his head shoved into the ground, one eye open to catch a glimpse of Ser Rodrik's movements. Tyrion found himself staring at a pair of well-worn boots instead. 

"Sorry about that," He heard Bronn's musical lilt call toward Ser Rodrik, no doubt a smirk on his face, "My brother's a bit clumsy. Not the brightest."

Gods, Tyrion would slap the sell-sword if he hadn't just saved his life. The Master of Arms' eyes briefly flitted toward Tyrion's muddied form, an uncomfortable look in his gaze. Tyrion shut his mismatched eyes tightly, wondering if the knight was scanning for sigils. For any sign that the little man in front of him matched the dwarf his Lady was looking for.

Tyrion had been glad of Nymeria's advice. Without it, he may have gone around flaunting his wealth. Without her warning of Lady Catelyn, Tyrion wouldn't know who to look for. What to avoid.

Ser Rodrik was silent, and Tyrion supposed the man was nodding in Bronn's direction. Footsteps faded and Tyrion finally lifted his head off the ground, mud caking his face.

He let out a sigh of relief, although it didn't last long. If Ser Rodrik was around, then that meant Lady Stark was not far behind.

"Thank you for that," Tyrion spoke up after Rodrik had entered the inn, drawing a silk rag from his belongings to wipe his face. There wasn't much he could do about the rest of his attire until he reached the Westerlands. Only then would it be safe to reveal himself.

Bronn shrugged nonchalantly again, "You're a funny man. And I like funny men."  
"In a perfectly reasonable manner, I hope," Tyrion japed, stuffing the rag back into his pack, "Regardless," He flipped a gold coin Bronn's direction, "I owe you a debt, and Lannisters always pay their debts."

Bronn fingered the gold coin before slipping it into his pocket, "So, a trip West then?" He asked, and Tyrion nodded, "Doesn't sound too bad. I hear there are good whores in Lannisport."

The sell-sword mounted his horse beside Tyrion and the dwarf chuckled. It was a sad chuckle. One filled with memories of big blues eyes and houses by the sea. Of a woman paid to love him and sung of love lasting seasons.

And now he was back to where it had all began. The Rock stood higher than even the Wall, and Tyrion always felt smaller when he stood below it. The mountain it had been cut into was a stone giant looming over them all. His Uncle Gerion always thought it looked like the king of lions watching over his subjects. The Lannisters had been Kings in their own right once. It cut an imposing figure, veins of dried up gold sparkling in the Western sun against the white alabaster. The only man-made part of the castle lay atop the mountain's peak, several keeps surrounding a large tower almost touching the sun itself, three tiers of rings descending into gentle slopes, forming the tufts of a lion's mane. It had been the source of the Rock.

The whole fortress expanded from the peak.

Several watchtowers had been hewn into the stone between the tufts, the red and gold of Lannister soldiers unable to be seen from Tyrion's spot on the ground. If an army did try to attack, they wouldn't know soldiers were there until it was too late. There was no need for a moat when they had the sunset sea at their backs, and the inside of the fortress was impossible to reach when armies could get bottlenecked at the Lion's Mouth.

The marble stairs ascended with steep incline, the gatehouse two hundred feet high, but even it was still dwarfed by the immense size of the rest of the stronghold.

"That's quite a castle you got there," Bronn spoke as if he was unimpressed, and Tyrion rolled his eyes slightly. "Wouldn't mind having one myself."

"Well, unless you think yourself cleverer than my father, don't go getting any ideas about this one," Tyrion warned, recalling the history of the Rock. He knew it all. "In eight thousand years no man has ever taken Casterly Rock. It's impregnable."  
Bronn shrugged again, as if the news didn't bother him at all, "Give me ten good men, and I'll impregnate the bitch"

Tyrion's laughter washed over the rock like the waves of the sunset sea, leaving no mark before evaporating into the air.

Their horses trotted up the marble case, and Tyrion waited with bated breath as the gates opened, the steel spikes looming over him like the rest of the rock, and when it finally stopped, Bronn turned to look at him.

"So, what do we do now?" He asked. Tyrion took a deep breath, spurring his horse forward through the cavernous Lion's Mouth, "Now, I meet with my father."

* * *

Tywin Lannister was, above all things, a patient man. One of the many attributes his children did not inherit. Cersei was impulsive, Jaime was impatient, and Tyrion was restless. Even now, as he sat across from his father in his solar, Tyrion used every bit of willpower to resist the urge to fidget.

His father would find any excuse to find a flaw in Tyrion, and he would never give the man the satisfaction. Not anymore.

He came home like he promised, although Tyrion was certain that Tywin would have preferred him in King's Landing instead.

Right now the Lord of Casterly Rock was pretending to write, something Cersei had copied from him. Tyrion knew when to wait. He also knew not to speak first.

"You've been busy," Tywin's deep rumble was all the allowance he needed.

Tyrion coughed and moved to speak, his words cut off by his father once more. "Tell me, what was so important that it dragged you North for another month?"

Tyrion shoved his nerves down and ignored the knot forming in his throat, "I wanted to see the Wall," He admitted, feeling rather foolish in his reasoning, "It actually proved to be more fruitful than I expected."

Tywin's sharp green eyes found his mismatched ones, lifting an eyebrow in silent curiosity.

Tyrion cleared his throat, "Princess Nymeria Martell rode up, bearing news that Lady Stark thinks we tried to murder her son."  
Tywin's hand stopped writing, dropping his quill to the desk and standing up. The man's shoulder's tensed as he moved to face the window, hands behind his back as he stared out into the sunset sea, red banners framing him on either side of the floor-length window, the golden sun making him look more intimidating. Lannister colors flooded the room.

"Does Lady Stark have any evidence of this plot?"

"Not anymore," Tyrion spoke nonchalantly, reaching for the flagon to pour himself some wine. He was disappointed when he saw only water instead. Tywin spun around, a look of stoic approval on his face, "Good." He moved back toward his desk, pulling out a fresh piece of parchment and picking up his quill again, "Regardless, these accusations will not go unanswered. I am sending you back to King's Landing," Tywin commanded him, "Where you will inform Ned Stark that Lannisters pay their debts."

He sealed the letter with red and gold wax, the lion snarling proudly as he handed it to Tyrion. Tyrion nodded gratefully, and when he moved to leave, Tywin's gaze ordered him to stay.

"You will behave yourself," Tywin ordered, eyes narrowing, "Anything less than what befits a Lannister and you'll be back here. Cleaning shit out of the sewers again."

Tyrion nodded his understanding, trying to keep the burning anger at bay. This didn't change anything according to his father. Right now Tyrion was a pawn in his game, and he wasn't sure if he was grateful or resentful.

"Good." Tywin spoke up, tilting his head toward the door, "Now go."

Tyrion's feet finally landed on the floor, and he moved toward the rookery, sending Tywin's letter off to King's Landing before saddling his own horse, getting ready to head back into the Lion's den.

** JON SNOW **

The ride down the winch had given Jon more time to think than his entire time at Castle Black. His gaze shifted to the large boy beside him. Sam was just like them. He'd been a fool to think otherwise.

He'd had no choice in his lot, while Jon had. Jon had chosen to come to the Wall. Jon had chosen to be shrouded in snow, doomed to wear black for the rest of his life.

But everyone else around him hadn't.

Grenn and Pyp had been forced. Sam had been forced. Even Nymeria had been forced to stay at the behest of her uncle.

He wondered how free she truly was. Whenever he saw her, she had a new command from the man, and she seemed determined to carry it out despite the personal cost. It was admirable really. It reminded Jon of his father.

And it reminded Jon that he had a duty now. He would be sworn to the watch soon, and he needed to be friends with his brothers. To stand by them through thick and thin, until Winter came for them all.

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

Jon noticed Sam's hesitation as he stepped off the winch, still unsure if it would ever hold his weight even after Jon assured him.

He was almost halfway to the keep but Sam hadn't moved an inch. The boy was fidgeting with his hands, staring at the wide courtyard with shiny eyes, his bottom lip quivering.

"Sam?" He pressed, shaking his new brother out of his stupor. Sam sighed and plastered a smile on his face. It didn't reach his eyes. Jon moved back toward the winch, clasping Sam's shoulder with his hand, "The trip wears you out, come on, we'll get some food and warmth in you and you'll feel much better."  
Sam tore himself out of the embrace with a grateful shake of his head. "I uh, I'm not hungry."

Jon knew that wasn't possible, and then chided himself for the thought. He remembered his first day at the Wall. How isolated and lonely he had felt. How the hot tears warmed him when the fire finally burnt out.

So he nodded, and turned his back on the boy, the two of them walking opposite directions. Jon paused when he reached the timber keep, hand hovering over the handle. He wanted to make sure Sam was okay, but his stomach was urging him to grab his meal and check in later.

The door creaked as he entered, raucous laughter echoing in the common hall as he removed his cloak and joined Grenn, Pyp, and Nymeria, the latter sat between the two, a wide smile on her face as laughter spilled past her lips.

It was an unusual sight, though not an unwelcome one.

It ceased when Jon grabbed his dish and sat across from them.

Grenn spoke first, his jovial nature out of place among the brooding of the night's watch. "Where have you been?" He asked, one hand on the table, the other hiding. Jon briefly wondered if it was around Nymeria. He shifted in his seat.

"Watch duty." Jon replied evenly, stuffing the stale bread in his mouth, "With Sam."

Pyp let out a chuckle, "Prince Porkchop. Where is he?"

Nymeria swatted the recruit at the sound of the nickname and Pyp's smile diminished.

"He wasn't hungry." Jon shrugged.

Pyp and Grenn shared a jovial look before turning back to Jon, "Impossible!" Pyp jested.

"That's enough," Jon ordered, an edge in his voice as he caught his friends off guard. Nymeria wasn't having it either, glaring at the two boys beside her before moving to the other side of the table, her leg pressed against his. "Sam's no different from the rest of us," Jon continued, recalling the story he'd heard on watch, "There was no place for him in the world so he's come here."

Nymeria nodded, "He had no choice, just like the rest of you."

Grenn and Pyp's heads bowed in shame, and Jon nodded his thanks at the girl, appreciating the support. "We're not going to hurt him in the training yard anymore," Jon explained, tearing off another piece of bread, "No matter what Thorne says. He's out brother and we're going to protect him."

A snigger came from behind his back and Jon turned at the sound of Rast's haughty tone, anger already bubbling in his stomach.

"You are in love, Lord Snow," Rast taunted, his lips twisted into what was almost a smile, but it was too cruel, "You girls can do as you please, but if Thorne puts me up against Lady Piggy," He sneered at the nickname, relishing in it, "I'm gonna slice me off a side of bacon."  
Jon's face was emotionless, but his insides were burning, itching to grab his sword and beat Rast in the courtyard like he had earlier. Something stiffened beside him, and Nymeria leaned forward, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed at the man.

"I'm curious as to how you're going to achieve that Rast," She spoke up, the edge of her pink lips teasing a smirk, "Last I heard your mother was still down south."

Rast's smirk disappeared and the brothers erupted into laughter beside him. Nymeria, proud of her work, raised her eyebrows and turned back to Grenn and Pyp, tossing a spare piece of meat Ghost's way.

Even Jon couldn't keep the smile off his face.

* * *

It had been Nymeria's idea. Not directly, but she had inspired it. "Gods I wish I knew where he slept," She sighed in frustration, "I'd have my blade at his throat and then he'd think twice about obeying Thorne."

Jon didn't have a blade, but he had something much better. The barracks were easy to navigate, and it didn't take long to single out Rast's much louder snores.

Grenn held his arms down and Pyp knelt on his legs, pinning the irritating boy down while Jon gagged him, silencing his screams while Ghost leapt onto his chest, red eyes staring into beady black ones, sharp teeth nipping at the exposed skin around his neck, drawing blood.

Jon lowered his voice, "No one. Touches. Sam."

The next morning, Ser Alliser yelled and ordered and called them names that bore no repeating, but no one laid a finger on Sam.

** SANSA STARK **

She couldn't keep her eyes off the throne. It was a hideous, ugly thing that towered over the rest of the keep, but Sansa couldn't seem to look away.

She would be queen one day, as everyone kept reminding her. It was a dream she held since she was a child, the galvanized swords blending together into a collage of conquerors.

Aegon's trophies.

The stairs leading up to it felt insurmountable, but yet she would need to climb them to sit beside Prince Joffery when he was crowned. To sit beside him as he presided over the smallfolk, the dreadful people wasting his time with complaints and petty issues when he should be spending it with her. Riding and walking and talking until the sun went down.

Light footsteps fell behind her, but Sansa didn't turn around, she already knew who it was anyway. "Someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side." Septa Mordane spoke with a mother's smile on her face. But she was no mother. She was a teacher who expected the best of her student. "And one day, before too long, you will present your son to the court. All the lords of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince…"

Suddenly Sansa was struck with an awful thought. "What if I have a girl?" She blurted out, horror seizing her and sending her heart battering against her chest.

The whole kingdom would hate her. _Joffery_ would hate her.

Septa Mordane only dismissed her concerns, "Gods be good, you'll have boys and girls and plenty of them."

Sansa shook her head. That wasn't what she meant. Not for the first time, Sansa wished Mother were here. She'd know exactly what Sansa was worried about. She'd cradle her and then sit her down and braid her hair until Sansa felt better.

"What if I only have girls?"

"I wouldn't worry about that." Septa Mordane tried to assure her. It didn't work.

"Jeyne Poole's mother had five children, all of them girls." Sansa reminded the old woman, but she was quick to respond.

"Yes, but it's highly unlikely," Mordane assured her again.

Sansa couldn't purge the thought from her mind, "But what if?"

The Septa sighed, her tone turning gentle, "If you only had girls, I suppose the throne would pass to Prince Joffrey's little brother."

Sansa felt pressure build behind her eyes. She'd disappoint everybody. Mother, Father, The Queen, Joffery. She didn't want to be a disappointment.

"And everyone would hate me." She uttered aloud, praying that saying the words didn't make them true.

"Nobody could ever hate you," Mordane spoke with a certainty Sansa had only ever heard from her Mother and father.

It wasn't true. "Joffrey does." She spoke with no emotion, as if it was a widely accepted fact. She had tried so hard, but he still hated her.

And the reason why only upset her further.

**"** Nonsense. Why would you say such a thing?" Septa Mordane met Sansa's eyes, and with one raise of her brow, the Septa understood why Sansa was acting the way she was. She braced herself for a lecture, but found she didn't have the patience for it, "That business with the wolves? I've told you a hundred times... A direwolf is not-"

"Please shut up about it!" Sansa cut her off, storming out the throne room, ignoring the calls of her Septa. There was no one around to chastise her, no one around to witness her unladylike behavior. She rounded a corner and forced herself to take a deep breath, almost running into the imposing figure of the Hound.

The burn on his face made Sansa want to shrink into herself, the marred skin bubbling up around his face, almost engulfing his eye. He had been someone she had been avoiding at all costs, yet Joffery always made sure he was around.

"Why are you alone little bird?" His rough voice scratched against her ears, but Sansa didn't move. Ladies didn't wince.

"I was headed back to my chambers," Sansa spoke, trying to swallow the knot that was forming in her throat, blue eyes widening as he took a step closer.

The natural light did not flatter him, and a shadow crept across the smooth side of his face, until all Sansa was staring at was the marred remains of what had once been.

"That's not an answer."

She gulped again, and took a step back. Had he come to hurt her? She was to be Queen right? That meant they couldn't hurt her. Not while Joffery was prince. But The Hound wasn't a Kingsguard. He worked under Joffery's orders.

Did the prince really hate her that much? It was a mistake, surely he could see that. Sansa was being a perfect lady, not choosing sides at the Trident. Obeying her father and the King at the same time. Surely Joffery saw that. The Queen did, didn't she?  
"Well, what have we here?" A smooth voice drew her gaze away from the Hound, and Sansa met the bright blue gaze of Renly Baratheon, his easy smile relaxing her. The Hound remained still, his back straight like the knight he was. Renly shot a look of concern toward Sansa, moving by her side to play the hero. It was like one of the songs, the handsome lord coming to the rescue of the frightened young maiden. But Sansa knew she shouldn't be so frightened.

The Hound would surround her until the end of her days. As long as Joffery reigned, there he would be. Perhaps she should get used to him. But she didn't want to.

"I'm to escort the little lady to the Tourney," The Hound gruffed, and Renly tilted his head, his smile turning into a smirk, "By order of the prince."

His words were strained, and Sansa wished she could see the other half of his face, His scarred half rarely moving.

Renly stepped forward, "I admire your loyalty dog, but I shall see Lady Sansa to the Tourney, her father wishes to speak with her first."  
Sansa didn't want to speak with her father. Her father was the reason Lady was dead. Her father was the reason she was so unhappy. Her father was the reason Joffery hated her.

The two men shared withering looks before the Hound gave in, snarling as he whirled around.

Armor clanked and soon the Hound disappeared behind a corner, Renly smiling victoriously. He held his arm out, "My lady,"

She took it, resisting the urge to giggle at his chivalry. He began to walk in the opposite direction of the Tower of the Hand, a fact Sansa was quick to point out.

"Do forgive me, Lady Sansa," Renly apologized, a guilty look crossing his handsome face, "Your father has no intention of speaking to you. I'm afraid I said that to diffuse the situation."

Sansa felt foolish. Of course, she should have realized. Her father hated the Tourney, but she recalled Renly's gallant actions. "There's nothing to forgive my lord, I am grateful for your interference,"

Renly smiled and continued to escort her through the Red Keep, each hallway looking the exact same as the last, "I'm glad." He stopped at one of the doors in the guest wing, grasping Sansa's hands in his, "There's someone I want you to meet,"

She waited patiently, ignoring the curiosity eating at her as Renly disappeared behind the door. Sansa resisted the urge to fidget with her hands like Arya would, or look around the keep. She held her head high and waited for Renly. When he came back out, a tall man was beside him, slimmer and a little off balance. It wasn't until Sansa saw the cane that she knew who he was.

"Lady Sansa," Renly began, "May I present Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden."

She curtseyed, ever the dutiful lady, and Lord Willas bowed, the green in his tunic complimenting the bright red of the walls surrounding him, his dark brunette locks curling around his ears, strands of gold appearing when the sun shone on him.

"It's a pleasure, My lord," She smiled, and Willas reached out his hand, taking hers in it before pressing his lips to the back of it.

"The pleasure is mine Lady Sansa," He parroted, butterflied burst behind her chest, the gesture perfect and sweet.

_You're betrothed to Joffery,_ she reminded herself. _It would not do to be seen with the unwed Lord of Highgarden, not before the Tourney._

"My sister is quite curious about you," Willas announced, his smile sweet and gentle, "She's quite fond of love stories, and the one between you and Prince Joffery has caught her attention."

Sansa tried to go over the Tyrell bloodline in her head, recalling her lessons with Septa Mordane. _Lord Mace, Lady Alerie, Ser Garlan, Ser Loras….aha!_

"Lady Margaery is too kind," Sansa beamed, unable to keep her emotions hidden much longer, "Please tell her that I would happy to regale her with tales of our love whenever she wishes it."

Not that there would be much to tell.

Willas nodded, and shared a look with Renly, who ushered her away and toward the Tourney grounds. Sansa was still grinning when took her seat next to Arya.

** NED STARK **

The tourney was a violent mess and Ned had seen too much of war to ever long for one again. He was glad for the trip down the Street of Steel, if only to have a reason to miss the damn thing. Robert craved these ghastly displays with every fiber of his being, and being King was the only thing stopping him from competing.

The only thing the King's Tourney was good for was taking his mind off this whole business with the Lannisters. The violence distracted him from the petty feuds and subtle politicking in King's Landing, as well as the thought that someone had tried to kill his son.

Tyrion Lannister, according to his wife. He had never distrusted Catelyn's judgment, but he was at a loss as to why the Imp would go to such extreme measures to keep him up North.

What had Jon Arryn been doing that warranted a possible poisoning? That had warranted a catspaw sent to his sleeping son's chamber?

His mind floated back to the tome Pycelle had given him. It sat up on the desk in his solar, collecting dust. Perhaps it was time to look into it.

From the few pages he'd read, there had been nothing of note. Just lists of every son and lord of the Great Houses since the time of the Conquest.

Nothing that would warrant the hand's attention. But yet, here he was, following in Jon Arryn's footsteps, hoping he didn't meet the same fate.

Their horses came to a stop, Jory dismounting with him as they stepped into the blistering heat of Tobho Mott's shop. The last known spot Jon Arryn was seen alive.

"You shouldn't be out here, my Lord," Jory warned, "There's no telling who has eyes where."

"Let them look." He was tired of these endless games. Of hiding what he really thought in case it was used against him. Politics were meant for Brandon, not him. Cat had attempted to teach him the game long ago, but he had no patience for it.

The blacksmith wiped his brow, his bald head shimmering with sweat, no doubt from the constant fires that blazed around him.

"The former Hand did call on me, my Lord, several times." Mott explained, although he seemed to grimace at the thought, "I regret to say he did not honor me with his patronage."

Ned had no time for past grievances, "What did Lord Arryn want?"

Mott shrugged, "He always came to see the boy."

Searching through the great houses, visiting children in the Street of Steel, what had Jon been looking for?

"I'd like to see him as well."

Mott didn't look surprised, although his guard visibly dropped. "As you wish my lord," He stepped aside, turning toward the lone smith in his forge, "Gendry!" He called out.

A strong name.

The shadow moved closer, flames reddening his skin as Ned got a better look at him. When the boy finally moved into the light, Ned gasped.

"Here he is, strong for his age. He works hard." Mott almost sounded proud. "Show the Hand the helmet you made, lad."

Ned was back at war, a boy of nine and ten, riding beside a hulking mass of muscle and curly black hair and stormy eyes.

That man stood before him now but three years younger, a willfulness to him that Ned recognized and Jon had tried to temper.

The boy was built like an ox, cropped black hair framing his face, exposing the bright blue Baratheon eyes to everyone he met.

For a moment Ned's mind wondered. _Was this what Lyanna's son would have looked like?_

A bronze bull's head was placed in his hands, and Ned could find no fault in the craftsmanship. He studied the boy's hands once more. They were large callused things, and for a moment Ned imagined a warhammer in his hand instead of a smith's. "This is fine work." He complimented.

The boy stiffened, "It's not for sale."

"Boy, this is the King's Hand!" Mott scolded him, "If his lordship wants the helmet…"

The boy shook his head, "I made it for me."

And with all the stubbornness of a Baratheon.

Mott tilted his head down, eyeing Ned as if the man would eat him alive, "Forgive him, my Lord."

Ned shook his head, "There's nothing to forgive." His eyes met Gendry's, but the boy turned away quickly, "When Lord Arryn came to visit you, what would you talk about?"

Gendry shrugged, "He just asked me questions is all, my Lord."

He was still refusing to meet Ned's gaze.

"What kind of questions?"

Gendry shot a look at Mott, who nodded approvingly, "About my work at first, if I was being treated well, if I liked it here." Every sentence his eyes moved away to another location in the room, but they never met the Hand's. "Then he started asking me about my mother"

Ned's eyebrows creased, "Your mother?"

Gendry nodded, still staring down at the floor, "Who she was, what she looked like."

"What did you tell him?"  
The boy shrugged again, digging his toe into the dirt like Arya did at times. "She died when I was little. She had…yellow hair. She'd sing to me sometimes,"

He sniffed and turned away, but Ned needed one last look.

"Look at me," He commanded, and the boy did. He was thrown back to the Trident, to the Vale. To all the times Robert had charged into battle with a wild look upon his face, ready to die if it meant saving the woman he loved.

And yet Ned saw none of that when he looked at Joffery. At Tommen. At Myrcella.

Ned handed the helm back to him, "Get back to work, lad."

Gendry nodded and Ned stared one last time before turning back to Tobho Mott. "If a day ever comes when that boy'd rather wield a sword than forge one, you send him to me."

Mott nodded gratefully, and Ned shook himself from his memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, so Tyrion is officially in the clear, which means that shit is going to go down much later than we all thought it would.  
> Also, Tywin is so intimidating to write like damn.  
> And we got WILLAS! I love the Tyrells and they're gonna have a HUGE presence in this story later on, so I hope you enjoyed this little sneak peek of them.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you're enjoying the story so far!


	10. The Lannisters Send Their Regards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion Lannister returns to King's Landing

**ARYA STARK**

The joust began with a lance to the throat. Some unknown knight from the Vale had been unhorsed by The Mountain. Gregor Clegane was stronger, taller, and held the better horse. Arya felt like an ant when he appeared on the field. His plain armor matched the Hound, and it stood above the rest of the knights, a stone giant on the field.

Arya hadn’t cared enough to remember each banner and sigil except for the houses that mattered. It wasn’t her fault not everybody was memorable.

The knight that had been unseated was one of them. She briefly recalled Father talking about the former hand, and how he’d had a squire that had been promoted to knight, but Arya couldn’t remember his name. Sansa would have remembered. Sansa knew everybody.

The Vale knight crashed to the ground directly in front of Sansa and Arya, her sister staring at the bleeding boy, no sign of horror in her eyes, just sadness. Arya thought it made her look strong.

Jeyne began to cry, Septa Mordane needing to escort the young girl away from the stands. Gods, she was so stupid. If Jeyne didn’t want to see someone hurt, then why’d she come to the tourney?

Arya could only stare at the boy on the ground in front of her. Spurts of blood leaking out of his throat, bubbling at the splinter before spurting out again.

His silver armor turned a rusted red, staining the finely crafted breastplate. The wood of the lance punctured his throat, jagged edges sticking out into the air, the knight’s gasps as sporadic as the pulsing blood, wasting his last breaths trying to regain his strength.

Arya didn’t even realize he had died until the Maesters lifted him off the field. Her mind flashed back to the lessons at Winterfell.

The lessons the Dornish Princess had taught her. The Mountain had gone for the throat. _The carotid_ , Arya noted. Her hand flew to her own, and she hadn’t even realized that she’d still been smiling during it all.

Was this the violence the princess had been talking about? Somehow Arya doubted it.

She felt nothing for the fallen knight, only a sense of pity that he hadn’t finished the tilt. If he had been better, he wouldn’t have been unseated. Tourneys were for knights to show who was the best of the best, and the Vale knight had shown which one he was.

Arya didn’t want to be like the nameless knight. She wanted to be strong, she wanted to be like Visenya, a woman riding into battle to become a conqueror. She had felt that way back at Winterfell, when she was sparring with Nymeria.

The sound of knives clashing against each other filled her mind, and Princess Nymeria’s face filled her thoughts.

The smoothness of her strokes, the swiftness of her strikes, the deadly gleam in her eye when she won.

Arya wanted to be like her. Suddenly, she began to search the stands for any sign of the sun and spear. But there were none. No sign of any Dornish house. Were they like the North? Stuck down in the barren wasteland and refusing to come to King’s Landing?

Maybe they were like her father, waiting until battle to really show what they could do. But Arya wanted to see the Red Viper and his famous bastards. Sansa would have told her it wasn’t proper for a lord of the house to have so many bastards around, but Arya didn’t trust her opinions anymore. Not after the incident with Lady.

The tournament continued on, and Arya grew bored.

Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr seemed to be the only worthy fight worth watching, and she laughed when the Hound unseated Lord Renly from his horse, tossing the broken antler away carelessly into the crowd.

Aron Santagar and Lothor Brune mounted their steeds, lances facing each other in battle.

** NED STARK **

Ned was impatient for the tourney to end. He had seen enough of the bloody sport and while he disliked being the Hand of the King, he disliked the Tourney even more. His mind drifted back to the tome on his desk, and the letter that had arrived a few weeks ago, a roaring lion on red wax.

Tyrion Lannister was coming to King’s Landing.

The man who had tried to kill his son would soon be living in the same castle Ned was. It made him sick. The Lannisters had gone unchecked for too long, and as soon as Tywin Lannister did something remotely out of line, Ned would bear down on him with whatever power he held.

He still never forgave the man for his treatment of Elia and her babes.

Suddenly he was struck with a question he had never considered. How did Nymeria live but Elia didn’t?

Arthur Dayne was down south, and the only Kingsguard during the Sack was Jaime Lannister. She should have died. Unless she was born with Aegon on Dragonstone. Ned shook his head. The Princess was only a few months older than Jon. It wasn’t possible for her to be born a full year earlier.

The Kingslayer was saddled on his mount, golden armor shimmering in the bright sunlight, his helm large and gilded, almost forming the shape of a Lion.

No. Jaime Lannister was not the kind to disobey his father’s orders. A knight who kills his king is no true knight.

It made Ned uneasy, to envision the Martell girl wandering around his home, supervised by only her sworn swords and captain of the guard. Catelyn had told him of her noble act. How she had saved both his wife and Bran in one fell swoop before falling to pride. Ned didn’t buy it. The Martells only knew vengeance. And no one had dishonored them more than the Lannisters and the Starks.

He remembered Prince Oberyn’s hotheadedness, how he had tried to raise Dorne to support the exiled Prince. He had failed, and it had been Jon Arryn’s logic that had saved Robert from suffering the same fate as Daeron the Young Dragon. Dorne was not a kingdom to be underestimated, but Robert still held the belief that he could have crushed them all like the rubies in Prince Rhaegar’s breastplate. They didn’t need a war then. They didn’t need a war now.

But it was getting harder and harder to avoid. Especially with the Lannisters scheming behind Robert’s back.

“A hundred gold dragons on the Kingslayer!” Littlefinger’s usually quiet voice rang loud through the stands, offering up a bet to anyone who would take it.

Lord Renly jumped at the opportunity, a sly smile on his face, “I’ll take that!” He accepted, and Littlefinger smirked. “The dog hasn’t been fed yet,”

“And he won’t be if he bites the hand the feeds,” Littlefinger retorted, sitting back in his chair, back completely straight as Ned turned his gaze back to the lists.

He had no desire to see either man win, but Sansa moved forward in her seat, eyes eagerly watching the two knights, her wide eyes flickering toward the Hound every once in a while. Something clouding the bright blue hue of his daughter’s gaze every time she looked at him.

Sandor Clegane slammed his visor over his face, the visage of a snarling dog facing the elaborate helm of Jaime Lannister, his standard lance facing off against Jaime’s more regal one.

Hooves kicked up clouds of dirt as the sound thundered through the stadium, and when wood burst against steel, it was Jaime Lannister who was thrown from his horse with such force, his helm dented, leaving the Kingslayer to wander around aimlessly, trying to tear the thing from his head.

Sansa sighed, and she leaned back into her seat, “I knew he’d win,” She said.

Renly was celebrating behind Ned, throwing several japes in Littlefinger’s face before finally announcing, “And if the Imp had been here I’d be three times as rich!”

Ned shook his head at the display and reluctantly turned back toward the field, sighing as he went back to watching the tourney.

The crowds bustled back and forth while the next competitors lined up.

“My Lord,” Littlefinger’s accent found its way into his ears, his breath causing the hairs on Ned’s neck to stand up. “I have just received word that Tyrion Lannister has just arrived in King’s Landing.”

Ned stiffened and excused himself, still unsure of Littlefinger’s intentions. He had a vested interest in Catelyn and as long as Catelyn supported Ned, so would Littlefinger. But that was all Ned had to go on. The men of King’s Landing were just as conniving as the women and it made him shift uncomfortably every time he thought of it.

And now Tyrion Lannister was in King’s Landing.

A full month later than when he was supposed to be. Ned wasn’t sure what to make of the information he’d been presented with.

His wife had told him Tyrion Lannister was responsible for his son’s attempted murder, so if that was true, why would he walk directly into the hands of the man who knew?

Why would the Martell Princess permit him to leave the Wall?

Ned strode across the hot brick, the sun beating down on him, drawing sweat from his brow as he moved to welcome Tyrion by the Gate of the Gods. But when he saw no horses or wheelhouses Ned turned to face Jory, who had come with him.

“Perhaps he came by a different road my lord,” He offered, and Ned nodded. His question was answered by shouts coming from the Lion’s Gate.

The metal creaked as it rose up, a small figure on a large horse galloping through the portcullis.

He had come from Casterly Rock instead of the North.

“Ah Lord Stark,” Tyrion’s smug voice came from atop the mare, dressed in the bright reds and golds of his house, a smirk on his face. Ned’s blood boiled. “I trust Princess Nymeria’s letter has made it safely into your hands?”

Ned blinked at the news. He recalled the letters he’d received over the past few days, but one with the sunburst and spear eluded him. Tyrion seemed to sense his confusion like a lion ready to pounce.

“Ah, no matter,” the dwarf stepped forward, dismissing his last comment with a wave of his hand, “I must offer my condolences for your son, a horrible thing.”

“One that you are directly responsible for,” Ned growled, arms crossed and jaw clenched. He didn’t want an apology or condolences from this man. He wanted justice.

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “I see,” pulling a letter from his jerkin, he handed the parchment to Ned, whose blood went cold when he saw the red and gold seal. “My father sends his regards.”

Ned read the words with his own eyes, the veiled threat Tywin Lannister had sent. Harm his family and there would be consequences.

And Ned had no proof. The knife was gone, and all he had was the word of Littlefinger.

“Guards,” Ned spoke through clenched teeth, “Please escort Lord Tyrion to his chambers,” He ordered, looking down at the dwarf. The only thing protecting him was his father and Ned would get justice soon enough.

Tyrion smiled smugly again, like he knew a joke that Ned didn’t, “Thank you for your generosity Lord Stark,” Ned turned to move away, footsteps stopping when Tyrion called out, “Your bastard says hi, and wishes you would have told him the truth. Frankly, so do I.”

_No, it couldn’t be._

Had everything he’d done to protect Jon finally unraveled? Had his promise finally been broken?

“The Night’s Watch is a shell of what it once was,” Tyrion continued, “You should have told him that before he left.”

Ned nodded, silent relief flooding his veins, and marched away, a knot of guilt forming in his chest.

**TYRION LANNISTER**

The smell of piss and shit hit him like an ax to the head. Hundreds of years of battles and regime changes and rebellions and King’s Landing stood through it all. Unchanging and unmoving. It had been sacked and sieged and burnt but still, it stood. 

It was almost admirable in a way. Aegon and his sisters had founded a capital that would last through anything.

Tyrion held the sense that it wouldn’t stay that way for long. 

He received no warm welcome on the way into the Red Keep and Bronn had left him by Visenya’s hill, choosing instead to make his stay at a brothel. Tyrion had considered the idea himself. He hated being under the watchful eye of the Lannister guards at the keep, no doubt placed there by Cersei herself.

She’d always been wary of him. He would always be the monster that killed her mother and she would always be the sister that wanted to kill him.

But they were family, and while Tyrion despised her almost as much as she did him, she was his blood and he would protect her and Jaime until the Stranger took him.

That was one thing his father had beaten into all of them.

Family over all.

“What are you doing here?”

Speak of the devil and she shall appear.

Cersei was dressed in all the finery her station required, her hair piled high atop her head, the crown of stag’s horns delicately placed in the center of it all.

She was a Queen, and everywhere she went she reminded people of it.

“Ah dear sister,” Tyrion deflected, a wry smirk on his face, he did love watching her squirm, “You always know how to make me feel welcome.”

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” She asked again, teeth slightly bared like the lioness she always envisioned herself as. Her green eyes were narrowed, like they always were when they talked.

Tyrion settled down in his seat, cocking his head as he looked at his radiant sister. The Light of the West she’d been called many times. He saw it now. Her velvety red dress and gold jewelry made her a painting impossible to look away from. A smile wasn’t her beauty.

Her beauty was her beauty. The way her eyes lit up like wildfire.

No wonder Jaime had fallen for her.

“Father sent me here,” Tyrion admitted, knowing that it was his only trump card when it came to Cersei. “He wants me to keep an eye on Lord Stark.”

Cersei chuckled mirthlessly, “Does he now? I was already doing that.”  
“Really? And how well is that turning out?”

Cersei was silent.

Ned Stark had been allowed far too much freedom with no consequences for his actions. The only reason Tyrion hadn’t been arrested on sight was because of Tywin’s letters.

“He’s following Jon Arryn’s footsteps,” Cersei confessed, lacing her hands together anxiously. “The exact ones. Going to brothels, visiting the Street of Steel, he’s doing everything that daft old man did in his last days." He didn't miss the bitter look on Cersei's face as she spoke of the former hand. Jon Arryn was not the Lannister's biggest supporter, and as a result, Cersei's freedom had been limited by the old man.

Tyrion nodded, recalling Jon Arryn’s exploits before their trip to Winterfell. “And what do you suppose he’ll find if he continues to look?”

Cersei’s eyes widened in a rare bit of vulnerability before clouding over with pride once again, “Nothing.” She spoke as if it was a certainty. But she should know better. They all should.

Tyrion shook his head. By the gods, his siblings would get them all in trouble soon. “And you're certain?”

Cersei’s eyes blazed with anger once again. “Yes.”

Tyrion shook his head and poured himself a glass of wine, offering one to Cersei as well. His sister always thought she was smarter than anyone who crossed her. It was her greatest flaw. That and her pride.

“Good,” He watched Cersei sniff the wine before setting it back down on the table, no doubt she thought he was trying to poison her, “Now perhaps you can help me understand why Ned Stark seems to think I tried to kill his son.”

A brief look of confusion crossed Cersei’s face before she was back to her regular smug self. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”  
Tyrion stood up as his sister sat down, her dress splayed out against the dirt and grime of the Red Keep. “If you sent that dagger Cersei then I need to know.”

She scoffed before going silent, her lips pressed together in a thin line before curving upward again, “And I told you, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

He shook his head again. If she really did send the dagger then it was going to be harder to prove his innocence.

She pushed herself out of the chair and past Tyrion, turning around at the doorway, “Welcome back little brother,”

Tyrion’s stomach sank, and a lump formed in his throat. It stayed there as he watched Cersei’s figure retreat, an uneasy feeling clawing at his insides.

Gods, how much damage had Ned Stark done already?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters are really short, but we're finally getting into the actual meat of the story and I can't wait for you guys to see what I have planned!
> 
> Please leave a comment/kudos if you're enjoying the story!


	11. Dark Wings, Dark Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned makes a crucial discovery and Sansa makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are FINALLY starting to pick up! I'm eager to hear your thoughts on Ned's discovery and how you think things are gonna play out!
> 
> Thank you guys for all the love and support you've been giving this story, it warms my heart!

**NED STARK**

Tywin Lannister’s letter had finally cemented Catelyn’s hypothesis in his head. The man felt threatened, and now he was trying to make Ned feel so.

Touch his children and the Riverlands burn.

Ned wasn’t trying to start a war. But he could not let his son’s attempted murder go unsolved. He prayed the Martell girl’s letter held more answers.

When Ned reached his solar he found Sansa and Arya already there. The elder girl was quietly sewing herself a new silk dress, no doubt to dress more like the Queen. It was a gesture Ned had seen from Catelyn a thousand times. It relaxed them, and Ned was happy that Sansa had found something else to focus on.

Arya was practicing her new water dancing skills, using a stray stick as a stand-in for the braavosi blade she had brought with her. Ned smiled slightly, envisioning a scene at Winterfell from his youth, before he left for the Eyrie.

He could practically hear Lyanna's voice as if she was standing right next to him. His heart tugged at the memory of her knocking him into the ground, a wide smile on her face not dissimilar to his youngest daughter.

Gods it hurt him to see such a resemblance in Arya. The wolfsblood ran hot in her too, and not for the first time, Ned second-guessed his decision to bring her to King’s Landing.

“My Lord,” Jory pulled him out of his thoughts, presenting a piece of parchment with a blank black seal.

It was from the Watch.

What could Jon have to write about?

He nodded to the guards to close the doors, needing privacy for this act. Everyone he trusted was in this room. Sliding the letter opener underneath the wax, it cracked easily, crumbs of it decorating the table.

_Lord Eddard Stark,_

_Your wife requested I investigate the exact circumstances regarding the attempt on your son’s life. I initially believed Tyrion Lannister to be the one behind the attack, however, after a recent series of revelations regarding the dagger used, I have determined that the person behind the attack is none other than Cersei Lannister._

_The knife was one from Robert’s weapon collection, won on Prince Joffery’s nameday._

_Nymeria Martell_

_Princess of Dorne_

His stomach dropped, knotting itself into a terrible mess of guilt and worry. Guilt for believing Tyrion Lannister capable of murdering a child and guilt for letting his daughter near the woman who had tried to kill Bran.

But there was no reason for the Queen to target Bran. Unless she had something to do with his fall. But she hadn’t been in the tower that day, at least not to Ned’s knowledge.

He was right, the letter had only provided more questions than answers.

But he was sure of one thing.

King’s Landing was no place for his daughters. Sansa had become too southern as it was, and Arya’s wildness was bound to cause more trouble later. He turned to Jory, a solemn look on his face.

“Gather a small retinue of soldiers, men you trust,” Ned cautioned, his voice low, “You leave for Winterfell in a fortnight.”

Jory nodded, exiting the room. Ned sighed and stuffed the letter in the desk, turning toward his daughters.

Sansa would hate him forever.

“Girls, come here.”

Arya froze, dropping her stick as she joined Sansa near the fire, who was now setting down her embroidery loop.

“What is it?” Arya began to ask, grey eyes wide with questions, “Is it Jon? Is everything alright? Did he die?”

Ned shook his head, still wishing daughters were easier than war. “Jon’s safe, but that’s not what this is about.” His eyes wandered toward the floor, not wishing to see Sansa’s eyes when he broke the news. He knew it would crush her. He raised his eyes to meet hers, “I’m sending you back to Winterfell.”

“What? Why?!” Sansa’s cry made him wince, and Ned moved to speak until Arya spoke up next. He was barraged with an array of responses,

“Is this because I’m practicing in here? I can practice somewhere else!—Please father, don’t make me go, I like it here—Syrio finally says I’m getting good—What about Joffery—

“This isn’t a punishment” Ned finally spoke over them, stopping the whining. He knew it would be difficult, but he also knew that Winterfell was the safest place for them, “I need to know you two are safe. That’s why I’m sending you back.”

Arya and Sansa grew silent at his words, their faces turning solemn. Sansa’s lip quivered, her eyes glassy. Ned’s heart tore itself in two.

“Can we take Syrio with us?” Arya asked, her eyes grey and wide and suddenly Ned wished to say yes, they could.

Sansa chimed in before he could answer, “Who cares about your stupid dancing teacher?” She snarled, “You promised me I’d marry Joffery! That I was to be his Queen and have his children! I love him Father, please don’t take that away from me!”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Seven Hells.”

Ned moved closer, sitting in-between the two girls, and took Sansa’s hand in his own. “When you are old enough I’ll make a match of someone worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong.”

He leaned in to kiss her forehead but she moved away, snatching her hand from his grasp, “I don’t want someone brave and gentle and strong, I want _him_.” Ned sighed again and Sansa’s eyes widened, her chin stuck up like a toddler, “He’ll be the greatest king that ever was, a golden lion, and I’ll give him sons with beautiful blonde hair!”

Arya scoffed and leaned over Ned to tell Sansa off once again, “The lion’s not his sigil stupid, he’s a stag. Like his father.”

Sansa grew enraged at the suggestion, face growing as red as her hair, “No he’s not, he’s nothing like that old drunk. He’s better than him!”

Suddenly it all clicked for Ned. Blue eyes, black of hair. Barra was yellow-haired, the smith’s apprentice’s mother was yellow-haired. He stood up, and dismissed the girls, telling them to pack for their journey.

He needed to take a closer look at that book.

A knock on the door ruined his plans. “Excuse me m’lord?” A brown-haired squire popped his head through the door, a nervous look on his round face. “Lord Varys told me to alert you to a small council meeting.”

Ned nodded and moved to dismiss the boy, “Thank you, I’ll be there shortly,”

“Actually, you should probably go right now m’lord,” The squire spoke, swallowing his words nervously, “Lord Varys says the King is in attendance.”

Ned looked up from his book.

**SANSA STARK**

It was so unfair. Joffery was finally starting to treat her like a princess and suddenly Father made the decision to send her and Arya home. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to interact with Willas Tyrell much more since the tourney ended, the Hound watching her every move.

She squirmed in her seat at the thought of the man.

Sansa had hidden her fear well, but the image of Gregor Clegane slamming the Hound’s face into the fire would not leave her mind. Nor would the drunken sadness and glistening eyes of Sandor Clegane.

It had been a moment of drunken madness that had led him to tell her that story, and Sansa found herself filled with a twisted sort of gratefulness at his actions. It had opened her eyes, encouraged her to look past the songs and stories she had grown up with. Before that night at the feast, Sansa would have dismissed the Hound and the Mountain’s fight as one of honor. But now she saw it as brother vs brother.

No one could have missed the rage in Gregor Clegane’s face after the Hound took up arms against him.

Her hands found the dress she had worn the night of the feast, the blue silk and floral embroidery matching that of the Queen’s common gowns. She hadn’t touched it since that night. It still held some wine stains from when Septa Mordane’s cup had grown too full.

Sansa tossed it aside.

“My lady,” A small voice brought her out of her thoughts, and Sansa found herself facing one of the handmaidens the Queen had gifted her. She was a slight thing, with mousy brown hair piled atop her head in the common style of the south. The style that Sansa sported more often than not nowadays. “The Queen wishes to speak with you.”

Sansa’s hands froze, and quickly she smoothed down her skirts, silently wishing she had time to put her hair up in the same style her handmaiden was wearing before meeting with the Queen.

But Sansa was ushered out immediately, one of the Queen’s handmaidens beside her own. The two escorted her through the Red Keep until they reached Maegor’s Holdfast, and with each step Sansa took, she was acutely aware of how her dress dragged across the floor, the embroidered blue roses hanging dully. She had worn it that day because Joffery was sparring and had sent the Hound to tell her that the prince would have no time for her.

There was no need to impress her Septa or Arya. But Sansa felt as foolish as ever. She should have still dressed to her station. She was to be a queen, she should dress like one no matter what.

The door opened and The Queen smiled at her, a gorgeous gesture that caused no wrinkles on her smooth skin. She looked absolutely radiant, the sun creating a golden aura around her. The Queen’s soft curls hung around her shoulders, like Sansa’s, but they looked like pure molten gold, and Sansa briefly recalled an old tale Nan had once told her. Of a man from the Westerlands who could once spin straw into gold.

The Queen sat down and gestured for Sansa to do the same. “Hello little dove,” She spoke with a soft smile, glowing like the sun behind her, “I heard about your brother and wanted to check in,”

Sansa nodded, staying silent before realizing that the Queen expected a response, “Maester Luwin says he doesn’t remember anything,” Her eyes kept darting to the parchment the Queen was scribbling on, a knot forming in her stomach. She hoped she wasn’t wasting the Queen’s time. “Nor will he walk again.”

Sansa’s face turned solemn at those last words, recalling how happy Bran had been when he was running across the towers of Winterfell.

Winterfell. The place her father was sending her, with its cold dark walls and little sunlight. Grey was all that lived in that place, and Sansa had seen so many colors it was hard to give it up. She didn’t want to give it up.

“You sound as if you miss him,” The Queen commented, looking back up at Sansa, green clashing against blue, “Do you?”

This was her chance, Sansa realized. Father would have to obey if the Queen requested it. No one except the King could refuse the Queen.

“No, Your Grace,” Sansa confessed, feeling a thousand stones lighter, “I love my brother, but King’s Landing has helped relieve my thoughts of his condition.”

Sansa patiently waited and after a moment, the Queen smiled, placing her quill down on the table.

“I’m glad,” She said, standing up, her red dress glittering, “Joffery absolutely adores you, It would be a shame to part two lovers such as yourselves.” The Queen chuckled, a fond smile not reaching her eyes. “I do hope you’ll stay here Sansa, and come to love the city as much as I do.”

The Queen reached out to twirl a piece of hair around her delicate finger, the wave bouncing as she let go of it. Sansa’s chest tugged and she knew that this was her only chance, the only time she would be alone with the Queen without her father’s guards around.

There had always been one by her side since the Imp’s arrival to King’s Landing.

Was that why the Queen summoned her? Because she could see how stifled Sansa felt? How lonely she was?  
It must be. They were to be gooddaughter and goodmother soon after all. Taking a deep breath, Sansa turned toward the Queen and told her everything.

**JON SNOW**

He had gotten used to watching alone. His first month it was all he did. He was still arrogant and angry toward his brothers back then and none of the senior members wanted to deal with him. Only Benjen had approached him, telling him that a man got what he earned at the Watch. No more. No less.

He wanted more. Jon didn’t want a repeat of Winterfell, where he was pushed aside in favor of higher lords and knights. He wanted to be like Lord Commander Mormont. Respected and loved by his brothers. Like he was really a part of a family. 

Jon already felt closer to Grenn and Pyp than he ever had with Robb or Bran. And Sam was finally getting there too. He’d been requested by Maester Aemon these past few weeks instead of watching on the Wall with Jon. 

He found himself missing the large boy, his humor easy and conversations intriguing. It was a respite from the weight of his duty. He would be taking his vows soon, and Jon knew that the transition would be easier if Sam was by his side. He was really the only person other than Nymeria who knew how he felt. Jon’s thoughts drifted to the dornish girl, how she seemed to be a constant presence since the King’s visit to Winterfell. Everywhere he went there she was.

In Winterfell. At the Wall.

No women were ever allowed at the Wall, and those that tried met the same fate as Danny Flint. Yet here Nymeria was, able to convince Lord Commander Mormont to let her stay, because her uncle was dangling men before him.

Jon shifted uncomfortably at the thought. He didn’t know much about Prince Doran other than what Nymeria had told him. And according to her, the prince never did anything without a reason. Placing her here, sending her north, Prince Doran had a plan and somehow Jon was part of it.

The Wall was a part of it.

And Jon hated not knowing anything about it. Surely she would have told him anything she knew?

Footsteps crunched against the ice and Jon whipped around, a hand resting on his sword. He had heard the stories of Wildings climbing the Wall, although he wasn’t sure how one of them would have gotten past his brothers. He relaxed when he saw who it was, falling back into his seat.

“Careful there Dragonknight,” Nymeria teased, a slight curve to her lips, Jon bristled at the comparison to his childhood hero, “I pity the man who meets you in battle.”

Jon scoffed, “There won’t be any battles for me.”  
He wasn’t a man of the Watch yet, and he doubted Robb would be calling the banners soon. Jon was still a boy, but he itched for a battle, if only to prove himself. He wanted to be seen as more than what he was. _Bastard._ That word had followed him everywhere he went. He wanted to be free of it. He went to the Wall to lose his last name. To lose the distinction of being the only stain on Ned Stark’s honor.

“You’ll get your chance,” Nymeria assured him, sitting down beside him, “We all will.”

Jon shifted in his seat, chest pounding as he considered asking her outright what her Uncle’s plan for him was. “Is this your chance?” He asked instead.

Nymeria’s eyebrows creased, brown eyes narrowing in confusion at his statement, “I’m not quite sure I know what you mean.”

“You want to prove yourself right?” Jon asked, moving his gaze back toward the skies, uncomfortable with how she was looking at him, “Is coming up North your chance to do it?”

She nodded in understanding then, opening and closing her mouth as she tried to come up with an explanation. Her gaze met his.

“I don’t know,” Her eyes shifted downward, watching her hands fidget with each other, “My uncle isn’t exactly the most…expressive with his pride.” She explained, biting her lip bitterly, “Like any Martell he has it in spades, but rarely does he bestow it on anyone else. You have to earn it,” She chuckled mirthlessly, staring at the flames like she saw something dancing in them, “I’ve spent my entire life trying to please him.”

Guilt pressed against Jon’s chest. He was expecting something else, a yes or no. Some kind of deflection or a new way to tease him. That was how she spoke. Martells dealt in secrets. Nymeria was no different.

But when he saw how wet her eyes became and how strained her expression looked, all of that dissipated into thin air. Because she was still a bastard, and no family name could ever change the way a bastard felt.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” Nymeria’s words turned sour, and gone was the playful girl Jon had grown used to, “That I came North on a foolish mission to win the pride of my uncle?”

His mouth flapped open and closed, trying to come up with a way to talk himself out of this situation. But there wasn’t one. He’d never been good at talking his way out of things in the first place. That had been Robb’s specialty.

“I didn’t mean—“

“No,” Nymeria shook her head, a wry smile briefly flashing on her face, “Of course you didn’t. You never do.”

Jon went silent again. He never knew what to make of her. But here she was, telling him something personal because he’d pried too far into her life. Because his own suspicions about her house had forced him too.

“I was never really welcome at Winterfell,” He confessed, moving closer to the fire. She met his gaze again, curiosity burning behind the glassy brown eyes. “Robb and the others treated me well enough, but Lady Stark—“ He cut himself off, a knot forming in his throat as he recalled what she had last said to him.

_It should have been you._

“Lady Stark gave all the kindness a bastard deserved,” He finally spoke. His life at Winterfell felt like a dream, sparring with Robb in the courtyard, playing with Arya in the godswood, teaching Bran how to climb when he was old enough. It was as if someone completely different had lived that life, but he was left with all the emotional weight of it. He still cared for Robb and Bran and Arya and Rickon, even Sansa. There were strings attaching him to each of them, but a different person had made those memories.

It never felt like Jon when he looked back on them.

But the barbs that Lady Stark threw he felt in his bones, fueling his anger until he took it out on a sparring dummy or one of the castle walls. Those Jon Snow remembered and became lesser when he recalled them.

There was not a single word Lady Stark had said about him that wasn’t true. Her coldness of him had been apparent since he learned to walk, only calling him ‘bastard’ or ‘boy’ instead of his name. Most of the time she refused to talk to him, but when she struck, it was a killing blow, shattering Jon’s confidence and lingering in his head long after he’d gone to sleep.

But she was perfectly justified. He was a mistake. A stain on the white cloak of Ned Stark’s honor. An endless reminder that her husband had slept with another woman.

Gods, how horrible a woman was his mother to make Ned Stark forget his wife?

All this he told to Nymeria, whose expression remained unchanged except for her eyes. They hardened into a cold amber, flames dancing in their reflection as they remained on Jon’s face.

It was after he told his tale, he finally remembered who had sent her up to the Wall.

Nymeria remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Jon shifted away, his words obviously making her uncomfortable, “I didn’t realize—“

“No.” She cut him off again, voice trembling. “There's no need to apologize.”

The tension melted under the heat of the flames, the two sharing tight smiles as the moon shined above them.

Jon’s shoulders sprung up, a weight disappearing into the night sky alongside the strong northern winds. He felt lighter.

“You’re the only one who tells me that,” He confessed, a slight smile growing on his face. Nymeria’s eyebrows creased again. “Not to apologize.”

She nodded, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. Her curls were braided back, a few stray strands falling into her eyes, moving when she moved. “I doubt that.”

Jon shook his head, “At Winterfell it was all I did,” He continued to wallow, “And even now I’m still doing it. I suppose—“  
“Nothing,” She cut him off with a smile, “It does no good to suppose and make assumptions about ourselves. We’re only here to learn and do better.” Her eyes had softened, and Jon felt himself melting along with them. “Besides, there is one thing you absolutely need to apologize for,”

Her tone had shifted into something more playful. He squinted at her, his lips twitching upward, “Really? What could that be?”

She stood up, tossing a wooden sparring sword in his lap, “You promised me a dance, Jon Snow.”

His chest burst into laughter at the gesture before looking around. Most of the men had fallen asleep, the braziers slow crackling fading as the fire dimmed. And here they were, atop the wall, gravel beneath them while the ice wept. He stood up, drawing the wooden blade as Nymeria drew another one from behind her.

“I was expecting a different dance, princess,” Jon japed, a wide smile on his face as he took up his stance.

She bit her lip as she smirked, a gleam in her dark eyes as she lunged forward. Her side was left open and Jon cut through her defenses, his blade slapping her ribs. “Dead,” He announced playfully.

She steeled herself again, a soft smile peeking through. She swung widely, her sword colliding with his as he blocked it once, twice, ducking under the swipe of her blade before kicking her to the ground.

“Dead”

But she jumped right back up again, her teeth bared and wild like the direwolf he kept as a pet. She was enjoying this.

He brought her to the ground once again, his knee resting on her chest. 

"You seem to like seeing me underneath you, Snow," She japed, and Jon turned a bright red, thankful for the darkness surrounding them. 

His moment of hesitation gave her the opening she needed and she kicked him off her. Jon grasped the wooden blade and turned toward the princess once again. 

Once he got his bearings he smiled, "You make it too easy, princess."

Nymeria cocked an eyebrow, her smirk growing wider, "Is that a challenge Snow?"

Their blades met again and the dance continued, struggling against each other, their grunts and yells echoing atop the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooh baby. Things are getting TENSE. And boy oh boy, Nymeria's letter is only going to cause more problems in the future so I'm eager to hear what you think!
> 
> If you're enjoying the story please leave a comment or kudos!


	12. A Lannister Always Pays His Debts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei makes a move. Nymeria's letter has more consequences than she intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I know it's been a long time since I've updated but here you go! There's not much of Nymeria in this chapter sadly, but this does set up the main political conflict that will be taking place and also introduces Arianne Martell! I haven't read her POVs in a while, so if something is off, feel free to let me know! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or given kudos over the past couple of months!
> 
> As always, if you enjoy the chapter please leave a comment below!

**CERSEI LANNISTER**

She wanted to wring Ned Stark's neck.

There was something the quiet wolf was hiding from her and despite her initial thoughts, she had drained Sansa Stark dry. The red-headed whelp looked up to her like she was the Mother reborn, and Joffery as if he was the Warrior. A sweet little thing with an empty head full of songs. It made her sick.

It almost reminded Cersei of her infatuation with Prince Rhaegar, and for a brief moment, she imagined a life where Aerys had not refused her father's request. Where she was a dragon queen feared by the realm instead of a stag made into a jape. She would have kept Prince Rhaegar's eye from wandering, unlike the dornish whore he chose instead. And she would have given him trueborn sons. Joffery's hair would be a bright silver and his eyes a deep purple instead of Jaime's blonde locks and green gaze.

There would have been no rebellion if Rhaegar had chosen Cersei.

Lyanna Stark would have been a tiny speck, wasting away by Robert's side as he whored his way through Storm's End and beyond, siring a bastard in every one of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Jaime would still be by her side. Cersei smiled at that thought as she moved through the Red Keep.

They were two halves of the same whole. Jaime was a part of her. They had come into this world together and promised to leave it together. She had three wonderful children that were the best of them, and if she had been found out by Ned Stark of all people…

"Your Grace," His thick northern accent cut her out of her thoughts and she shifted her expression into something more innocent.

"Lord Stark," The title hung in her mouth and she tasted it, like a lion swallowing a fish. A sly smirk crossed her face as she moved deeper into the solar. It wasn't as organized as Jon Arryn's had been, but Cersei knew exactly where to find what she needed. If Lord Stark was anything like the father figure Robert had loved so dearly, then he would keep anything of value in the top drawer.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Lord Stark asked, his grey eyes narrowing in her direction, forever the vigilant wolf. Cersei chuckled lightly, hands folded over each other, "Sansa came to see me the other day," She barely smiled, a small thing that never displayed her true intentions. Like everything else, it was a weapon. Her words were lies, a way to keep up the appearance of the benevolent monarch. After she had summoned her, the girl had practically begged Cersei for help, whimpering and willing to spill her father's plans into Cersei's lap.

She was almost as loyal of a dog as the Hound.

"She told me of your plan to send her North," Cersei revealed, "Practically begged me to stop it."

She let her words hang there, watching Ned Stark squirm, relishing in his discomfort.

"She loves it here," Lord Stark replied, moving away from his desk.

Cersei pressed forward, "So let her stay, she's a sweet girl." She couldn't have Ned Stark leave, not before knowing what he knew.

She would keep him in the Black Cells if she could, torturing him until he gave up what he knew. This little stunt of his had exposed him, his soft underbelly ripe for the kill.

Lord Stark's gaze narrowed even further, "Starks don't do well down south."

"Your sister did."

His eyes flashed darkly at her words and for a moment she caught a glimpse of the soldier he once was. The man who had killed Arthur Dayne and helped Robert win a rebellion. Cersei smiled.

Lord Stark's jaw clenched, "My sister was stolen from her family and forced down here."

"And yet she lived longer than your brother and father," Cersei shot back, bitterness coating her tongue, "Tell me Lord Stark, what was it that killed her? The anguish from learning the truth or Rhaegar Targaryen himself?"

Stark bristled, and Cersei smirked. He was pitifully easy to read, and the only witness to their conversation was a flighty handmaiden who was helping tidy up the solar.

"Why do you care?" Stark asked, his voice lowering into a growl.

Cersei scoffed, "I don't," She lied, recalling her wedding night and the Stark Girl's lingering presence throughout her marriage, just like Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark had stolen another man from Cersei, but she was still paying the price seventeen years later. "She must have been a frail thing, to be stolen away and assaulted in such a way, makes me wonder what Robert ever saw in her."

Stark's gaze was steel, but his shoulders softened, no doubt in pity. "He didn't know her," He replied, "None of the Kingdom did."

Her green eyes narrowed at the man before her, scanning the strained look crossing his face. It seemed Lyanna Stark was a sore subject for her husband and his hand.

"And yet he wanted her as a Queen," Cersei continued to press, "Even though she was seven and ten years in the ground and I had born him children, a legacy, he always wanted Lyanna."

She spat the name out with such contempt it was cathartic. That damned wolf-bitch had ruined Cersei's chances with both Rhaegar and Robert, the latter never able to get over the betrayal.

Even when Tywin Lannister had handed his own daughter, the Light of the West, into his hands.

Like Elia Martell, Lyanna Stark had stolen everything from Cersei. And she would do anything to steal it back.

Stark's face fell, averting his gaze briefly before clashing against her own again. Cersei let herself imagine a world where Ned Stark had taken the throne, and she was his wife instead of the little trout he had been forced to wed.

It was like looking into one of the seven hells.

"Sansa belongs up north," Lord Stark switched back to the conversation they'd had earlier, "With her mother and brothers."

Cersei wanted to laugh in his face, but she had wasted too much time here, "She believes differently, although I suppose you wouldn't know," She taunted, relishing in the strained look on his face. She loved when she struck a nerve, "Daughters are so easy to forget, aren't they Lord Stark?"  
Her dress trailed behind her as she left the solar, a smirk written across her face as she disappeared down the hallways of the Red Keep. When she reached her room the handmaiden was waiting for her, a rolled up piece of parchment with a black seal in her hand.

Cersei smiled.

* * *

**TYRION LANNISTER**

Gods he was bored. The books in the Red Keep were the only thing keeping him from going truly insane, although he did enjoy watching his sister try to deal with the current Hand of the King.

Ned Stark was truly terrible at his job, and Tyrion enjoyed watching every bit of it. It was like watching a raging hurricane, unable to tear his eyes away.

The only thing of note he had managed to do was overspend on a Tourney dedicated to his name and Tyrion had shuddered when Jaime told him how much it had cost. His brother was, as always, the only saving grace of King's Landing, seeing as keeping an eye on Ned Stark had proved fruitless.

The new hand was following the footsteps of the old one, like the soldier he had been raised to be. Although Tyrion was curious as to why the honorable Ned Stark had chosen to visit a brothel of all places. It really made no sense, but Tyrion had other matters at hand. He'd learned from his investigations that the dagger had indeed been Robert's, won from Littlefinger after the weasel had bet on Ser Garlan instead of the Hound. But Tyrion was still nowhere near discovering who had instigated the plot.

"You little monster!"

He'd been reading an intriguing passage on Maegor the Cruel's construction of the Red Keep when Cersei barged through the door, waving a piece of parchment in her hand, eyes blazing wildfire.

"What have I done now?" Tyrion asked, his eyes never leaving his book. She slammed her hands down on his desk, rattling the goblet of wine he'd been gulping. She stood there in silence, simmering in her anger.

"I know you conspired with that little dornish whore up North," She spat, vitriol growing with each word that left her mouth, "Don't you dare try and deny it."

Tyrion finally lifted his eyes to meet Cersei's, cocking his eyebrow at her accusations. "My dear sister, I can't deny what I don't know."

She threw the paper in his face, and Tyrion sighed, closing his book to read the elegant cursive of Princess Nymeria, his sister collapsing into a chair.

"I initially believed Tyrion Lannister to be the one behind the attack," He spoke aloud, reading the princess's words verbatim, standing up from his chair, "However, after a recent series of revelations regarding the dagger used, I have determined that the person behind the attack is none other than…Cersei Lannister."

His voice dropped off as he read his sister's name, exasperation written across his face. Oh, Nymeria, what in the seven hells were you thinking? Accusing his sister would start a war, one that they could not afford. Although he suspected that was precisely Doran's plan in the first place.

"This is all your fault," Cersei snarled, jaw clenching as her gaze burned into Tyrion's own. "You've hated our family—"

"You're wrong," Tyrion cut her off, tired of her paranoia about him ruining the Lannister name, "I am trying to protect my family. I had nothing to do with this," He waved the piece of paper before her, trying to convince his sister that he was not the enemy here.

Cersei scoffed, "Of course you did, do you think it's a coincidence this letter appears just after you leave the Wall?" She snatched it back from him, crumping it in her hands, "Or that Ned Stark decides to head North just after you arrive and inform him of it?!"

Tyrion shook his head, anger bubbling up in his stomach. He came down south to protect his family, to try and uncover the plot Nymeria informed him of. This only caused more chaos. What was Doran seeking to gain from all of this?

"Have you ever once considered that I am not your enemy here?!" He asked, raising his voice. It only served to make Cersei angrier, "That perhaps this was a plot by Dorne and I was used just as much as you were?"

Cersei shook her head, not wanting to believe the truth. She never did. The truth was what she decided. That was always her way. If the world didn't fit what she believed, she'd make it. Tyrion had always been a monster to her. The traitorous little brother trying to ruin her reputation and the Lannister name along with it.

So she'd always made him look the fool. Always ratted him out.

"Robert and Jon Arryn took care of Dorne," was all Cersei said, almost like she was trying to convince herself, "Prince Doran has let that go."

Tyrion shot a look at her, "You and I both know he hasn't."

Cersei grew silent at that, staring off into the roaring fire as Tyrion sighed. He moved around the table, topping off his wine and pouring some into a second goblet, a peace offering for his sister.

She took it and gulped. "He's trying to form an alliance with the Starks," Cersei spoke, finally saying something that was somewhat intelligent, "That's why he sent that bitch north,"

Against his instincts, Tyrion didn't defend the princess. He didn't need more of Cersei's paranoia. "So we stop it." Tyrion offered, "Keep Ned Stark here, where we can watch him. Where his family assumes he's safe."

His sister's lips pressed into a thin line, the wildfire back in her eyes, "And let Dorne get away with what they've done?"

He sighed again. Why did he have to have such dense siblings? "We can deal with them later, for now, we have to keep Ned Stark close." He advised, unsure if she would even listen to him. Cersei shook her head.

"He's determined to head North, I've tried to talk to Robert—"

"But he's busy with his whores I suspect."

Cersei's jaw clenched again, and she laughed mirthlessly, "You're a funny man," She spoke sardonically, the underlying anger returning, "It's too bad mother isn't around to enjoy your jokes."

Tyrion swallowed the knot in his throat, trying to calm his breathing. It was Cersei's go-to defense, but it always stung when she used it. He had never known his mother but he was certain he would have loved her. He did love her despite not knowing her.

She was family.

Cersei stood up at his silence, exiting through the door, letter still crunched in her hand.

* * *

**ARIANNE MARTELL**

She missed Nymeria. Tyene's presence was a welcome distraction, as was Ser Daemon, but it wasn't enough to improve her mood these past few months. Tyene had departed Sunspear earlier that month and after her outburst to her father, Ser Daemon hadn't been seen inside the keep since. Arianne had to ride out to meet him, hoping Oberyn didn't catch her. Areo's return had provided her with much relief, although it quickly died when she realized that he would be following her from that point on.

He was a babysitter. A way for Father to keep an eye on her.

She was traversing the gardens of Sunspear for what felt like the hundredth time. The heir to Dorne reduced to an insecure girl trapped in her home.

"You seem distracted little princess," Areo spoke up, his rumbling voice pulling her from her thoughts. She smiled softly at the moniker he always used. The guard seemed to be her only friend these days, but here he was, a watchdog for her father.

She sighed and drank in the dry desert air, the blood orange and lemon trees populated with the bright fruits, symbolizing the midsummer. "I am tired Areo," She spoke up, her shoulders slumping from the weight she had been carrying, "I am tired and angry and…" She trailed off, biting her lip before turning to face the sworn shield, "I am curious most of all," she finally admitted, trying to keep her voice steady, "Why he chose my brother over me."

"Princess—"

"Cousin!" A welcome voice interrupted Areo's reply and Arianne turned to find Lady Nym standing there, a wicked smile on her face that matched Oberyn's. They all had his smiles and his eyes. Nym was just as willful and hot-blooded as Obara, but her elegance made for a more acceptable appearance. Obara may be the sword, but Nym was the diplomat, words her specialty. That didn't make her any less deadly. "There you are!" The Sand Snake smiled, pressing forward, her ochre dress dragging across the floor. "Obara and I have a bet, although she demanded you weigh in on it as well."

The darker sand snake appeared behind one of the hedges, rolling her eyes as she stepped beside her half-sister. She was taller and stronger, her figure looking more at home in the tunics the men favored, always seen in breeches rather than the dresses Nym and Tyene often wore.

Arianne chuckled slightly, her mood slightly lifting at the appearance of her cousins. While much older than her, Arianne would never say no to their company, at least they didn't keep secrets from her.

"I merely suggested we seek her out," Obara interjected, her spear strapped to her back. Together the two of them represented the sigil of House Martell. Nym's bright humor and words the sun while Obara wielded the spear.

Arianne crossed her arms, arching a playful eyebrow at the two girls. "Well, I can't give my opinion if I don't know what it is,"

It felt good to jape again. She had missed the company of others for so long.

Obara sighed and turned toward her, arms open in surrender, "Nym thinks that the reason Daemon hasn't been to Sunspear is because of Prince Doran's refusal of his proposal," She explained, shooting a dirty look at her sister, "Whereas I believe he left for the same reasons Tyene did."  
Arianne shook her head, laughter bouncing upward toward the sky. "Well your sister is right," She mused bitterly, although she enjoyed the antics of her cousins, "Ser Daemon's wounded pride has, unfortunately, cost him his presence here."

_And sent him crawling back to Godsgrace._ Arianne's thoughts were tinged with sad resentment.

Lady Nym shoved her victory in Obara's face, a smug look in her eyes as the latter rolled hers. Arianne chuckled along with them, recalling the day bitterly as she tried to hide her true feelings on the subject. It had been just after Nymeria had gone North and she had told her father about her exploits. Ser Daemon had marched into the tower and offered his hand, only to be shoved away and refused by Doran.

That night Daemon had refused to see her and kept his distance ever since.

Their laughter was cut off by the raised finger of Obara, narrowed eyes scanning the overgrown hedges.

"Hush," Obara's tone turned serious, drawing her spear. Lady Nym seemed to sense something too and drew a dagger from inside her robes. A tense silence fell over the three girls and Areo joined them in drawing his weapon, the man on edge.

The sound of metal whooshed past Arianne's ear and a cry was heard behind the bushes. A man in nondescript robes fell forward, Nym's blade lodged in his eye as his screams echoed through the courtyard.

In his hands was a small ornate dagger, and the pale color of his skin made it clear he was not from anywhere near Dorne.

He was still alive though, and Obara rushed toward the castle to alert Doran, while Nym grasped the assassin by the small hairs on his head.

"Who sent you?" She asked, voice lowering into something more menacing.

The man stayed silent, his laboring breaths the only sound in the garden. Nym grabbed the blade by the hilt and twisted, eliciting another scream from the man.

"The Queen!" He called out, desperate for relief, "The Queen sent me!"

Nym pulled back on his hair again, "How many?"

He was silent. The snake twisted again.

"OKAY OKAY!" He yelled, his shrieks floating upward into the air, "Four. She sent four of us."

Arianne's blood ran cold. He was destined for her. For her family.

_Nymeria's letter._

"My brothers. Papa," Arianne whispered aloud, eyes widening. She drew her skirts up and sprinted toward the entrance to the tower, climbing several staircases and pushing past the guards in their velvet armor.

She needed to check on Quentyn and Trystane first. They were more vulnerable.

"Quent!" She called, voice echoing through the lofty halls of the castle, scouring every corner for them, "Trystane! Where are you?"

She continued to call, the silks slowing her down as she ran, cursing herself for not adopting trousers into her wardrobe like Nymeria did. The halls were silent, and Arianne's worry was pounding in her head, sounding like war drums.

She called out again but silence met her words.

No. They had to be alive. She wouldn't lose more family to Lannisters. She wouldn't lose her brothers. Not in the way Papa had lost his sister.

Steel clashing against steel rang down the hallway and Arianne followed it, heart pounding against her chest, threatening to join the fight if she didn't catch up soon enough.

Obara was engaged with two other assassins, blocking their longswords before slashing downward, creating a large gash in one man's face and stabbing him in the thigh. Obara blocked the other sword behind her, flipping the spear to her other side and thrusting forward, the point of the spear emerging on the other side of the man's chest, falling to ground once Obara pulled it back out.

The Sand Snake huffed and kicked the other man to the ground, his head slapping against the marble floors, staining the dusty color red.

"Arianne," A meek voice called out from one of the rooms. Quentyn's room. She whipped around, turning herself away from the carnage Obara had just unleashed. Her younger brother peeked his head out, the door opening wide. Trystane was sitting at the desk, a cyvasse board before him, while Quentyn waited with worried eyes.

She scanned the room.

It was safe.

"Thank the gods," Arianne engulfed her younger brother in a hug, instructing him to lock the door. He nodded and did as he was told.

He always did as he was told.

Arianne knew that another assassin was still out there, and there was only one other member Cersei Lannister would target.

She burst through the doors of the throne room, Doran's chair empty and the Maester nowhere to be found.

Oberyn stood on the orange carpet, his yellow robes drenched in the blood of Lannister men, spear by his side. Just like she had left Obara.

The lone assassin lay at his feet, and Oberyn spat on the man as he moved in closer to her, answering the unspoken question on her mind.

"Your father is safe," He assured her, bringing her in close and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Arianne leaned into the affectionate gesture. She was safe. Her father was safe.

"They will pay for this," Oberyn muttered, anger rumbling in his chest, "They will all pay."


	13. The Night's Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those that celebrate it and a Happy Friday to those that don't! It's not midnight where I am yet, so I figured I'd give you guys a little gift by updating TWICE in one month after a long hiatus haha. Thank you to everybody who commented, kudos, and followed!!!
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains uncomfortable content relating to sexual assault and death. The scene can be read as explicit, but unfortunately realistic due to the case of Danny Flint and the nature of the men of the Night's Watch. Nothing sexual happens, but it does propel necessary character development for Nymeria and sets up her storyline going forward. If you wish to skip it, scroll from "Well look what we've got here?" to "Crimson stained the snow."
> 
> Again, I'm so sorry for including a scene like this. As a survivor, this hurt to write and I completely understand if you wish to abandon the story going forward. 
> 
> Please enjoy the rest of the chapter.

**NED STARK**

**"** You're speaking of murdering a child." Ned's own words caught in his throat, deep and guttural as they spilled out across the table. Robert's face was redder than usual, and Ned couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I warned you this would happen." The King's chest swelled with each heavy breath, reminding Ned just how far Robert had gone since the rebellion, "Back in the North, I warned you, but you didn't care to hear. Well, hear it now." He continued to stare Ned down, a darkness falling over his face, "I want 'em dead, mother and child both. And that fool, Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them both dead."

He would order the death of a child. The death of two children he considered a threat. Blood and blue roses danced before Ned's eyes, as visions of promises and forgotten words appeared before him.

Ned's voice grew tight. **"** You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this."

 **"** Honor?!" Robert scoffed, as if Ned was a fool for believing in what Jon Arryn had taught them, "I've got Seven Kingdoms to rule! One King, Seven Kingdoms. Do you think honor keeps them in line? Do you think it's honor that's keeping the peace? It's fear! Fear and blood!"

Robert's roar soared through the hall, and Ned thought he could smell the wine on his breath even this far across the table.

The people would talk.

Just like they did about Aerys.

 **"** Then we're no better than the Mad King."

Robert's gaze darkened and he stood up out of his chair, crimson flooding his cheeks. **"** Careful, Ned. Careful."

Emboldened by his honor, Ned pressed forward, **"** You want to assassinate a girl... Because the Spider heard a rumor?"

 **"** No rumor, my Lord." Varys' soft lilt spoke carefully, "The princess is with child."

 **"** Based on whose information?"

Varys shared a look with the rest of the table before meeting Ned's eyes again, **"** Ser Jorah Mormont. He is serving as adviser to the Targaryens."

Ned scoffed. Of course, they would believe the word of Jorah Mormont. The honorless man would have fit like a glove in King's Landing, **"** Mormont? You bring us the whispers of a traitor half a world away and call it fact?"

 **"** Jorah Mormont's a slaver, not a traitor." Littlefinger interjected, the sound of his accent sending a pulse of annoyance flooding through Ned's veins, "Small difference, I know, to an honorable man."

There it was again.

The little jab he'd received for daring to be honorable in a land of snakes.

 **"** He broke the law, betrayed his family, fled our land." Ned listed off, trying to communicate in a few words why Mormont wasn't trustworthy. He'd abandoned Jeor to the wall, forsaken his Aunt and cousins, disgraced his house. "We commit murder on the word of this man?"

 **"** And if he's right?" Robert posited, clearly not willing to let this go, "If she has a son? A Targaryen at the head of a Dothraki army… What then?"

The sound of Ned's heart slamming against his chest was all he heard. He needed to do this. He had to do this. Murdering a child was not an option.

 **"** The Narrow Sea still lies between us." Ned offered in a final effort to change his friend's mind, "I'll fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water."

Robert's laugh was mirthless, nothing like the raucous one Ned remembered, **"** Do nothing? That's your wise advice? Do nothing til our enemies—"

"My Lords," The brown-haired squire from before shrunk inside himself, swallowing tightly as he found himself caught in a battle of power in the small council chamber. The council's heads whirled toward the squire in question, a letter held tightly in his hand. "The King has received a letter from Dorne."

Tyrion Lannister's chair scraped the floor, the small man standing up and making himself known for the first time since the fighting had broken out.

"From Dorne?" The dwarf asked, an unreadable expression moving across his face. Ned creased his eyebrows at the gesture, wondering what possible investment the Lannister had in the desert country.

Ned grasped the parchment in his hands, the orange and red wax almost burning under the pad of his thumb. The Martells had no reason to write. For the better part of a decade, Prince Doran had refused to have anything to do with the Baratheon regime, never forgiving Tywin Lannister for the murder of his sister and the crowning of Cersei in her place.

If it hadn't been for Jon Arryn convincing Robert to legitimize Nymeria, Ned was sure Prince Oberyn would have rallied Dorne to the Targaryen cause.

The Martells had gained a legitimate heir in exchange for peace. So why was Prince Doran writing now?

_King Robert Baratheon,_

_This attack on the Royal House of Martell will not go unanswered. We forgave your goodfather's crimes against our sister, Elia, we accepted your former Hand's conditions for peace. For seventeen years we have stood still, refusing to raise our banners against you despite my kingdom's call for vengeance. Despite my brother's failed rebellion._

_But this crime we will not forgive until Dorne receives the justice they were denied._

_For the four lives we would have lost, we demand four conditions in return._

_A betrothal between my son and your daughter._

_A seat on the small council._

_A position for my brother's daughter in the Red Keep._

_Gregor Clegane's head on a pike._

_Should these needs be met, Dorne will stay the docile, peaceful, nation Lord Arryn wished us to be. If receive word that any of these conditions have not been fulfilled, I will consider it, and your wife's attempt on my family's life, a declaration of war._

_Prince Doran Martell_

_Prince of Dorne_

_Lord of Sunspear_

"Seven hells," Robert swore, collapsing back into his chair and rubbing his hand down his face.

Varys' perfumed voice rose up out of the silence, "Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to give into Dorne's commands."

"Are you out of your mind?" Renly asked, jumping up out of his seat to protest the whole affair, "If we give Dorne a length they'll take a league, I say we refuse."

"With a possible Dothraki horde coming our way?" Varys continued to press, "Daenerys Targaryen pregnant with a possible heir to the throne?"

Littlefinger nodded, "For once, I agree with the eunuch. It is much better to have a united front than waging a civil war anyone can exploit." His narrow eyes seemed to shift toward Ned for a moment before returning back to the king.

Robert was slumped in his chair, fist tight as he stared at the letter Ned had read aloud. At the letter that was so close to ruining everything he and Jon had fought so hard to achieve.

"We can give the Prince his betrothal, surely he will be happy with that." Tyrion piped up, and Ned shook his head.

"No, I know the Martells," He announced, recalling the swift way Princess Nymeria had fought against her personal guard. How she'd been able to take down an assassin and save his son's life. The vengeance that had burned in her gaze when she spoke to the Queen. "They will want all of it or nothing."

Tyrion fell against his chair, defeated.

"You damn Lannisters," Robert growled, his sunken eyes staring down the dwarf's, "Thorns in my side, all of you."

His chair scraped the bottom of the floor, heavy footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the keep, Robert's face still the same cherry color it was when Ned had entered, only this time his gaze was clouded, bright blue dissolving into a stormy grey.

"Your Grace?" Pycelle asked, the rest of the council standing up.

Robert stopped at the exit, addressing the brown-haired squire with a curt nod, "If the Queen asks my whereabouts, tell her I've gone."  
Pycelle moved again, "Your Grace, where are you going?"

"ON A HUNT!"

His voice rumbled through the hall, shaking the foundations of the keep and thundering in Ned's chest, the northern lord letting out a resigned sigh as the door slammed behind him, leaving the small council to sort out the mess he'd left behind.

* * *

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

She crushed the parchment in her hand, tossing it in the burning hearth as she paced around the room. This was useless. Doran's plan was useless. Sarella's letter had reached her much faster than Arianne's, but stuck up here amongst the cold with no access to the news of the realm was maddening.

Her thick cloak dragged across the wooden floor, the furs rustling with every footstep. Something glinted out of the corner of her eye and Nymeria froze, her gaze locking onto the dagger that had been left in her possession. It hung at her side, weighing her down with each step she took.

How could something so small do so much damage so quickly?  
It was your fault too, her traitorous mind whispered, you are as much to blame as the Lannisters or the Starks.

She was trying to play the game. But she was failing.

This was what she had been raised to do. What her role had been since the beginning. The unexpected pawn. The level-headed Princess to Arianne's hot dornish blood.

But she was out of practice. Up here she could do nothing. Up here she was subject to the whims of her Uncle and the men surrounding her.

Up here the game didn't matter.

A knock was heard at the door and she spun around, clutching the dagger tightly in her grip as she came face to face with Samwell Tarly.

"Sorry to disturb you, Princess," He stammered over his words, fidgeting in his new leathers. They squeezed him tightly, turning his face red just from how tight they were, no doubt Thorne had requested them that way. "Lord Commander Mormont wishes to speak with you"

Seven hells, could this day get any worse?

Nymeria already had an inkling of what this meeting was about. Her Uncle had promised men, and yet all he had sent was a princess instead.

Six moons at the wall and Doran still hadn't fulfilled his promise.

"Thank you, Sam," She followed the Tarly boy through the winding passageways of the King's Tower, the blistering snow flying at her face, stinging her cheeks and causing her to draw her cloak closer as they crossed the courtyard, both southern children missing the warmth of their homelands. For Sam, she supposed it was the green fields and summery seasons of the reach, where flowers bloomed aplenty and wine was had by all. For Nymeria it was the harsh desert winds and the red sand dunes she would race Obara through. It was her feet sinking into the soft grains as the blistering heat warmed her face and tanned her skin a darker shade of bronze. It was the sound of crashing waves and steel clashing against steel, her Uncle Oberyn's laughter rising up from the gardens of Sunspear as he sparred with his daughters.

It was too cold up North.

Too harsh.

There was no laughter at Castle Black, nor crashing seas. There was wood upon steel and shivering men and the sun was nowhere to be found. Nymeria drew her eyes up toward the grey skies, wishing for even the tiniest sliver of warmth to peek through the barrage of clouds. But all she felt were the snowflakes on her cheeks. The sun had set a long time ago, and Nymeria missed the long days in Dorne.

The wood creaked underneath her feet, filling the silence between Sam and Nymeria as they reached the top of the Lord Commander's Tower, Jeor Mormont patiently waiting as he tended to business.

Nymeria wondered how much of it was real.

"Lord Commander Mormont," She spoke stiffly, unused to being summoned by anyone except her Uncle.

The Old Bear stared at her, blue eyes piercing into her dark gaze before setting his ink and parchment aside.

"Princess Nymeria." His voice wavered on the first word. He was still unused to addressing her as such. "I believe you and I have something to discuss."

The door shut behind her and she was alone in the chamber, Sam no doubt relieved to be out of the room and his duty fulfilled. Nymeria couldn't say she blamed him.

"If this is about my Uncle—"

"He promised us men and he failed." Mormont's tone was stern, like a father talking down to his daughter instead of a man of the watch discussing issues with a princess of Dorne, "I have been more than generous in allowing you to stay here Princess, but after the men take their vows, I must ask you to leave."

This wasn't part of the plan. Her breathing grew shallow. She had clear instructions from Doran, stay at the wall and watch over Jon Snow. Convince him to leave the Wall and come to Dorne. Her goal was so near. But things were accelerating much quicker than she or Doran anticipated.

"Lord Commander," Her voice hissed through her teeth, fingers clenching themselves into a tight fist over the pommel of the Valyrian dagger, "My Uncle is an overly cautious man, and I think you overestimate the stamina of your ravens, my lord."

Mormont stiffened, but his expression remained unchanged, fixed on hers with all the stubbornness his house was known for. "You have been here for nearly six moons, surely that is enough time for Prince Doran to have made his decision."

She scoffed inwardly, biting the inside of her cheek. Doran never did anything in a timely manner, taking seventeen years to enact any sort of revenge for his dead sister. Her mother.

Oberyn was too hasty and Doran was too slow.

It made her wonder if her mother had been the balanced one of the siblings.

"Prince Doran never does anything without reassurances," Nymeria explained, fingernails digging into her palms, her nerves engulfed in the fist by her side, hidden from view. "If there is any doubt in his mind, he will sit there and do nothing until it resolves itself."  
Commander Mormont's expression shifted for the first time since she entered, eyes squinting at her, the tightness in his jaw disappearing.

He let out a large exhale, "You sound as if you've done this before."

Nymeria nodded curtly, eyes flitting toward the floor before meeting the Old Bear again, "This is not the first time my uncle has needed alliances, my lord."

She recalled the disastrous attempt to betroth Trystane to the youngest Manwoody, and how Doran's foolish caution had cost them that political alliance in the long run.

She loved her uncle, but he was weak. Waiting until the perfect moment to strike. _The grass never strikes_ , she thought, _it just sits._

Mormont looked pensive, looking down at the piece of parchment he had shoved aside, "Would you say Prince Doran would be more willing to support us if he knew what we were fighting?"

Nymeria scoffed. Everyone knew what the Night's Watch was for these days. Stopping Wildlings and harboring prisoners. There was nothing out beyond the wall worth fighting anymore. Maybe once there had been, like in the tales and legends commonly passed around by the small folk. But now there was only cold.

Only snow.

"Yes, he would."

Mormont nodded in thought at her words. "Benjen Stark's horse rode through the wall this morning, missing his rider."

Nymeria's eyebrows knit themselves together, confusion stirring in the pit of her chest, trying to decipher the older man's motive for telling her this. "I'm sorry for your loss, my lord."

Mormont's eyes shot up to meet her gaze again, his lips downturned and jaw clenched, "Benjen Stark is still alive." He sounded certain, but from what Nymeria had seen, nobody could survive that weather for that long. "I am leading a ranging to find him after his nephew swears his vows."

Her throat constricted, chest tightening as she contemplated his words.

Jon Snow was not meant to swear his vows. Nymeria's plan was to keep him south. Keep him a free man.

But the Lord Commander had different plans.

"I want you to join us," Mormont finished, the final shock to her system nearly causing her entire facade to break down and expose the surprise that burst inside her.

"My Lord, I am not a member of the watch, I cannot—"

"If proof is what your uncle needs, Princess, then proof he shall get."

Nymeria swallowed.

* * *

The cold still hadn't gotten any easier to deal with during her stay. Nearly half a year at Castle Black and she still needed several furs and a brightly lit fire to keep her from shivering. She thought she'd get used to it, Mormont had been kind enough to lend her a fur cloak, the black feathers and thick wool reminiscent of the jape most of Westeros knew the Watch as.

A crow.

Was that what she was now? She had been here so long she could hardly recall what Dorne felt like, how it smelled. All she remembered was the sound of waves crashing against the shore in a desperate attempt to walk on land. Was she even a viper anymore? Did she deserve that title?

The courtyard was barren, most of the men either asleep or finishing up the last of their training. It was only a matter of days before time ran out.

Before they were called upon to swear their vows.

Her heart hammered against her chest, pulse quickening as her footsteps moved through the thick snow, leaving a trail in her wake.

Her cloak was beginning to weigh her down, and Nymeria quickly ducked into the stables to shake some of the snow off.

A soft whinny came from one of the stalls and she removed the hood, the lit candles providing a bit of warmth as she moved toward the sound.

Her heart melted when she saw the animal who had let it out. "Phoenix," She spoke softly, her sand steed fidgeting in her stall until Nymeria's hand landed on her thick black mane, gently brushing her coat while her other hand stroked her nose.

"Shhhh, you're okay," Nymeria soothed, "Shhhhh."

Phoenix's dark eyes were wide, pupils dilated as she blinked at her rider. The north was no place for a sand steed. She was a dornish horse, made to roam free among the sand dunes underneath the hot sun.

There was no place in the cold for her.

"We can't stay here much longer," Nymeria whispered, Phoenix gently nuzzling her hand, "This isn't our home."

The horse neighed in affirmation, digging her hoof into the ground.

She knew what she had to do. No matter what Mormont or Doran said, she knew once Jon took the black, she wouldn't be allowed to stay any further.

Something twisted in her chest at the thought, but she shook it away.

When Phoenix seemed to calm down, Nymeria gave her one last pet before adjusting her cloak once again.

Her boots crushed against the hay, moving through the stable until the wind stung her face again.

Seven Hells, it was almost worse than Dorne's.

"Well look what we've got 'ere."

Footsteps crunched against the ground and Nymeria froze, blood turning to ice like the ground beneath her feet.

Karl Tanner's sneer was wide and gleeful, black eyes scanning her up and down in a way that only made her shiver. Ethan Blackmont was beside him, the former heir circling her like a hungry wolf ready to engulf his prey.

"Our very own Danny Flint," Karl's voice was rough and scratchy, grating on her ears with each word that dropped from his mouth. Ethan's tongue swiped across his teeth, and Nymeria's jaw clenched.

She knew the story by now. The men had wasted no time telling her it, the familiar glares of lust lingering on her before growing quiet. Shrugging like it was a pity she wasn't the northern woman. A pity that she had the protection of a title.

Her hand drifted to her side, ready to grab one of her daggers if need be.

 _They can't touch you,_ she whispered to herself, _you are a Princess of Dorne, and you belong to no man._

Ethan's footsteps stopped behind her, and Nymeria forced herself to recall Oberyn's lessons. The men weren't wearing armor, a swift kick in the gut or a scratch across the face would be enough to subdue them. She pressed forward, Karl's body stopping her.

"Now where do 'ou think 'ou're goin' Princess?"

The title dripped with contempt, and the knot in Nymeria's stomach grew tighter, nearly paralyzing her as her chest heaved up and down silently. More figures in black appeared out of the corner of her eye, Rast and Chett among the entourage.

Shit.

She forced steel into her spine and lifted her chin proudly, shoving whatever she felt deep into the depths of her gut. She would not cower for them.

"My quarters," She spoke coldly, hoping it would deter him, "And I'd like to get back before Ser Marwyn realizes I am missing."  
It was an empty threat. Ser Marwyn was too far away and probably too deep in his cups to do anything, but they didn't need to know that.

Karl's laugh was obnoxious and echoed off the empty towers. They rattled like a prison cell, and he pushed forward, forcing Nymeria back.

She slammed directly into Ethan, whose wandering hands found her waist, squeezing her tightly. His nose pressed deep into her hair, "She even smells filthy," He muttered, his voice shivering next to her ear, "But she'll make for a good fuck."

She slammed her elbow into his gut, backhanding him into the snow. She was Princess Nymeria of Dorne, daughter of Queens, and he would not have her.

A small dagger slid into her hand and she struck, slicing Karl's bicep and parrying his punch, with her hand and dagger locked around his forearm, she twisted, eliciting a scream of pain for the man. Rast was moving in next and she kicked him in the gut, the gesture sending the weak boy reeling as she moved to run, three out of her four assailants dealt with.

Large arms wrapped around her chest and pulled her back, pressing her up against the brick of the building.

"You little whore," Ethan's breath was hot on her neck, breathing shallow as it bounced back at her from against the wall. His hands pinned her arms to her side, shoving her against the wall again, her back screaming in pain as he grew closer. His teeth were crooked, bright green eyes blazing as his lips forcefully pressed against hers. Nymeria kept hers thin and frozen, but his tongue slid past her iron prison, disgusting and slimy as it licked in the inside of her mouth before licking Ethan's lips in victory.

"Let me go," She muttered, trying to regain some of her strength. He slammed her against the wall again.

"Now," She hissed as his hand slid against her bare skin, nearing her leggings as his crooked teeth widened themselves into a smile, his grip still tight against her, "Let's see if the dornish taste as good as they claim."

Nymeria willed herself to shut her eyes, praying to the Mother, The Maiden, The Warrior…anyone who was out there that could help her. But the wind blew soft and cold, and as Ethan's breath prickled against her skin, her eyes shot open, grabbing his wrist and pulling it free.

"I said. No."

She grabbed his fingers and bent them back, hearing the crack of bone mixing with Ethan's howls. Skin slapped into her jaw and she fell face first into the snow, cold seeping into her clothes and dampening her tainted clothes.

Rushed footsteps.

Angered men.

Nymeria thought of her mother as she tried to crawl back up.

_Elia Martell, bleeding and crying on the floors of King's Landing while Gregor Clegane raped her and murdered her._

_Elia Martell. The Princess of Dorne._

_Elia Martell. Her mother._

_She was a Princess of Dorne and the Seven afforded her no dignity as she left this world._

_As she left Nymeria._

_You are not me, my child. Her voice seemed to say. I had no say in my death or my life. But you do. You do._

Her fingers found something metallic and she whipped around and pushed, blood gushing over her hands as it drained out of a pale figure above her.

_I Am Princess Nymeria Martell of Dorne. Daughter of Queens. And I belong to no man._

Crimson stained the snow, Ethan's dark hair and alabaster face hollow.

Her hand trembled, the Valyrian steel ready to slip out of her grip at any second.

Oh, gods. What had she done?

White fur and red eyes bounded out of the shadows, mirroring the scene before her.

"Ghost?" She breathed out.

The wolf licked her bloody hands, and a tear slid down her face.

* * *

**JON SNOW**

Jon heard the sobs first. He thought it was Sam once again, come to seek comfort for his supposed failings as a man of the watch. But these sobs were softer, separated by deep gasps of air, like they were searching for breath.

He pressed the wooden door open, stopping when he caught sight of the woman sitting on his bed, tears streaming down her face as she met his gaze.

"Nymeria?" The word choked in his throat, knitting his face together in an attempt to understand what the princess was doing in his room.

His eyes fell to her hands, firelight illuminating the crimson color that coated her hands, her abdomen drenched in it.

He hurried forward, pulse quickening and stomach clenching as he brought his hands to her stomach, a gesture she stiffened at. Jon removed his hands. "What happened?"

Nymeria's lips tightened and she pulled away, the gesture wounding him more than he anticipated.

He didn't know what to do. Sansa always went to Lady Stark or Father when she cried and Arya was more angry than sad most of the time. It seemed as though she didn't want to be touched, so all Jon did was sit there and stare, his wide grey eyes fixated on the shaking woman before him.

The woman he had seen stare down the King and Queen with little difficulty. The woman who had confronted Tyrion Lannister with ease.

The woman who'd stood up to Thorne and fought beside Jon with little prompting.

But now here she was. A puddle at his side.

And Jon didn't know what to do.

"I killed him." She wavered once again, gaze drifting down to her bloodied hands, Ghost gently licking them. The wolf was snuggled against her legs, sitting quietly like he always did. But his head rested on Nymeria's lap, red eyes wide as they stared up at her.

His own wolf was a better comfort than Jon was right now.

"Who?"

Nymeria refused to tear her gaze from her hands, "I had to. I had to do it, I had no choice, he was…" Her voice cracked, broken and soft and collapsing under the weight of her sin, "I was on the ground and he—" Her hand clasped her mouth, her muffled sobs cutting off her words. Her eyes were pools of brown he almost found himself lost in, wide and frightened and resembling his own during that awful storm when he was younger.

She let out another shaky breath and grasped his hands, warmth bursting across his palms. "I killed Ethan." Her sobs punctured the breath between each word, the soft candlelight illuminating the saltwater dripping down her face. Her gaze was harder now, resembling the amber color he had seen atop the wall months ago. Something dark drifted over her face, jaw clenching.

Jon could only sit there and watch.

He'd seen his father execute deserters. He'd seen Jory loose an arrow and skin a stag faster than he could run. He'd heard of men dying in battle, his Uncle Benjen telling him of the glorious stories in the Night's Watch, his father telling him of Ser Arthur's tragic demise during the Rebellion.

The Martells spoke in secrets, Maester Lupin had told him, but before him, he could only see honesty.

"Did you burn it?"

Her sobs quieted, and Jon held his breath.

"What?"

Jon exhaled sharply, his face stone as anger and nerves raged like a fire in his gut. Gods he was stupid.

"The body," He didn't know why he was continuing down this road, "Did you burn it?"

Nymeria shook her head, finally tearing her gaze away from him, leaving his hands cold as she pried them away from him. "No," She swallowed, "I was a bit preoccupied if you hadn't noticed."

The words were sharp, and pierced straight through his chest like they were meant to.

"The men of the watch burn their bodies. Like the wildlings." Jon explained, a voice in the back of his head mentally slapping him for opening up his mouth, "Most men of the North do."

"Well I'm not from the north am I?" Her brown eyes had hardened into icy amber, grief morphing into anger before him. "In Dorne, we bury bodies, like the rest of Westeros."

She sniffed and dragged her hand across her face, twisting the sheathed knife in her hands as she stared at the floor.

Anger morphed back into grief, except Jon knew this sadness. This horrible feeling that had plagued him the first few weeks at the Wall. That still plagued him sometimes.

"Tell me about Dorne," He finally offered, her eyes latching into his again. They were softer this time around, a beautiful array of golds and browns and, if he peered close enough, a slight violet tinge. Her lips perked up slightly and her gaze glazed over.

"It's…it's home." She began, "The sand dunes are worse than the seven hells to wade through, especially on a sunny day, but the soft winds we get from the dornish marches make it easier to bear. The Red Mountains are harsh, but stand taller than anything I've ever seen. They jut out of the ground like tall spears piercing the brilliant blue sky." She chuckled and closed her eyes, almost as if she could see the scene before her, "And the sun— the sun…"

She exhaled deeply, and that was all Jon needed to understand her meaning.

The sun was to her what the snow was to Jon.

Comforting in a way nothing else was.

"It's blistering and warm and…I've never felt anything like it." Her smile was growing wider, lips open slightly as she tilted her head back, almost basking in the imaginary element.

Jon couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips.

Her gaze met his and she chuckled alongside him. "You would do well in Dorne," She bit her lip, chewing on the skin as her eyes flickered up and down.

Jon shuffled in his seat, moving away from the warmth she'd been radiating. "I'm not much for deserts, Princess."

Her hand latched out to grab his. It was desperate, gripping his fingers with a strength he hadn't expected.

"Come home with me." She spoke softly, voice barely above a whisper as her gaze stayed stuck on his, "No one cares about bastards in Dorne. No one would look twice."

But he would still be a bastard. Still a man with no name or title bringing shame to his family.

Sitting there, scanning the doe-eyed, desperate look on her face, Jon wanted to say yes. Perhaps before Benjen went missing he would have.

Before his father becoming hand he would have.

In another lifetime Jon dreamt of sailing across the Narrow Sea and becoming a sellsword, just as he used to dream of joining the Kingsguard.

But his Uncle was missing. And his family needed him close. He could do more for them at the Wall than he ever could in Dorne.

He was to be a man of the Night's Watch. The Sword in the Darkness. The Watcher on the Wall. He swore to protect Sam and Grenn and Pyp and the rest of his brothers.

This was his duty. And he could not forsake it.

He brought his other hand to close around Nymeria's, refusing to look at her. "No."

Nymeria cracked, a soft gasp of shock leaving her lips before sealing them shut. Jon's chest ached, and he found himself wanting to go back on his word.

Warmth slipped out of his hand as a girl with long dark hair and sad eyes crept through the wooden door, not even sparing him a second glance.


	14. Winter is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nymeria makes a discovery at the Wall. Sansa witnesses a change.

**JON SNOW**

He tugged his cloak closer to him, a slight shiver slithering down his back as he did. The sensation was unknown to him. The cold had always been a comfort rather than an annoyance, but something else in Jon's head told him that the cold wasn't the reason for the sudden burst of anxiety in his stomach.

He turned around and found a pair of brown eyes staring at him, lips turned down in a frown as Nymeria went back to grooming her black sand steed, gaze narrowed at the other men of the Night's Watch.

He'd never asked what had happened to her that night. All he knew was that Ethan was dead and Nymeria was now responsible. His brother was dead because of a stranger.

But she was no stranger. She was a friend. Someone he'd confided in at his lowest.

His nerves knotted themselves up, forcing Jon to clench his stomach to keep his dinner down. He didn't know why he hadn't told anyone yet.

Why he hadn't told Lord Commander Mormont yet.

It was a serious crime. One that his father wouldn't have stood for.

And yet he couldn't stop the tugging in his chest that told him to keep it to himself. Nymeria had been more of a friend than anyone he'd ever known, and he refused to sell her out.

He wasn't a brother yet.

He still held onto his honor.

"Your work must be done here then." He spoke openly to the young woman before him, not daring to look into those cold eyes again. He hadn't seen warmth in them since the night in his chambers and yearned for it once again.

Nymeria's shoulders tightened along with her grip on the horse's reins. "Yes, although I suppose it was only a matter of time." Her gaze flitted toward Ser Alliser and Lord Commander Mormont, "I suppose I must earn my uncle's pride another way."

Jon knew the bitterness in her voice. He'd tasted it himself many times. He scanned her face, quirking an eyebrow up with a sad smile. "Is this goodbye then? Princess?"

Nymeria's lips quirked up at his words, a soft chuckle leaving them. "Not quite Snow. Mormont wants me to stay for a while longer." His chest fluttered at the thought, "I'm not done bothering you yet."

A chuckle slipped out of his mouth, "I'm glad." The knot in the back of his throat grew tighter, never taking his eyes off Nymeria's delicate face, recognizing the soft crinkles near the corner of her eyes, the dimple near her mouth, even the small mole just above her cheek.

She was soft and delicate and sweet with a spirit like Valyrian steel.

_And I could've had her._ Something in his head spoke aloud.

Her eyes were wide and warm, flecks of gold scattered among russet. She blinked, a quiet breath leaving her.

Jon gasped as her lips met his, soft and lovely and sweet. Warmth fluttered through him and his stomach bubbled, a sensation he'd become familiar with. Everything tingled, and Jon leaned in to reciprocate when she pulled away, brunette hues peering through long lashes, a shy smirk spreading across her face.

"I had to do it." She justified, something in her voice cracking, "Just once."

She left him alone in the stable, lips wet and hungry for more.

Jon could still taste her as he made his way back to the courtyard.

He wondered if he was making a mistake.

Metal ground against metal as the north gate opened, fresh snow lining the path leading to the Weirwood.

To the palace of the Old Gods.

When he was beyond the wall he knew he could never look back. This was where he belonged now.

Jon was an honorable man. He'd told himself such when he had nothing else left. He was a Stark. They prided themselves on being fair and honor-bound. His father was the perfect example of that.

But that assessment had been challenged the very day he'd arrived at the Wall. He'd met them all. Growing closer to robbers and rapers, using his training with Ser Rodrik to his advantage, even relying on Nymeria for advice when it came to dealing with Ser Alliser.

He never said a word against the Watch. He'd earned his place, hadn't he?

His boots crunched against the snow, Ghost nuzzling his leg as they grew closer to the heart tree, bright red leaves against the stark white trunk.

Crimson on snow.

Like the blood near the stables. Like the blood staining the knife.

White eyes with blood-red tears stared into Jon's face, as if judging him right then and there.

He was still an honorable man.

The incident was before his vows. Before he was a true brother.

Jon Snow of the Night's Watch would be honorable, like his father and uncle before him. Like the Starks of old.

His knees collapsed to the ground, the comforting presence of Sam beside him.

_"Hear my words and bear witness to my vow._   
_Night gathers and now my watch begins._   
_It shall not end until my death._   
_I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children._   
_I shall wear no crowns and win no glory._   
_I shall live and die at my post._   
_I am the sword in the darkness._   
_I am the watcher on the walls._   
_I am the shield that guards the realms of men._   
_I pledge my life and honor to The Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."_

A black coat shielded Jon's vision, and he refused to look anywhere else except the heart tree. He almost thought it was smiling.

"You knelt as boys," Othell remarked, a slight smirk tugging on his lips, "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch."

Relief coursed through his veins, the unbearable weight he'd been shouldering since the day he left Winterfell evaporating alongside his breath. The embrace of his brothers felt warmer than any fire or cloak, and Jon found himself smiling.  
His brother's affirmations rang in his ear, something he'd always wanted and rarely got.

Small voices whispering "well done" as hands clasped his back and shoulders, like he truly belonged there.

He knew he did. This was the right choice. This was what he was meant to do. As a Stark. As a brother. He'd made a vow.

And he kept his vows.

The moment was broken by a slight rustling from the trees. Ghost's paws were silent as he moved across the ground, a soft whimper leaving his mouth. None of his new brothers gave any indication of hearing it.

"What's he got there?" Sam asked, tilting his head in confusion, voice slightly shaky. Jon stepped forward and knelt down again, beckoning with his hand.

"To me Ghost."

The wolf obeyed and dropped the object at Jon's feet. Horrified murmurs spread through the group, Othell gagging behind him.

Jon couldn't tear his eyes away.

Because at his feet lay a severed, frozen hand.

* * *

**TYRION LANNISTER**

King's Landing was finally getting interesting. Before Ned Stark, life in the capitol had been horribly dull, with Jon Arryn handling the affairs of the castle while Robert whored and drank his way to an early grave.

Not a bad way to go if Tyrion was being honest.

His mind drifted back to when he was of a younger age, and that soft singing voice haunted him again.

Her name was on the tip of his tongue, and he could almost taste her sweetness again.

The vows they made to each other before Jaime had told him the truth.

He shook himself out of his stupor and continued his walk down the halls of the Red Keep, his new squire Podrick trailing behind him.

After the outburst in the council chamber, Tyrion had approached the Payne boy, thanking him and accepting him into his service for the time being.

Everyone had spies in King's Landing, Tyrion figured the boy made for a better one than Bronn the Sellsword.

With agonizing steps, Tyrion began climbing the Tower of the Hand, legs throbbing as pain pulsed through his veins.

He moved his thoughts elsewhere to distract himself. Tyrion drew his thoughts to the summons he'd received instead.

Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, demanding his own testimony regarding the situation up North. Apparently, Princess Nymeria's letter wasn't enough for the Warden of the North.

"Lord Stark," Tyrion announced his presence, drawing the man out of his books, wax littering the desk of the solar. The Lannister noted orange and yellow among the muted colors. The Martells had been given an answer. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Ned Stark stood up, his face hollow and sunken, grey eyes dull and rimmed in purple. The Hand of the King had aged several years in the span of six months, and Tyrion almost thought he caught a glimpse of grey streaking through the man's hair.

"Lord Tyrion," Stark's gaze narrowed his direction, but Tyrion remained impartial. Lord Stark held no love for Lannisters as most of the capitol knew. The sooner he convinced Stark to look somewhere other than him, the happier he'd be. "I understand you stopped at Winterfell on your way south."

Tyrion sighed and moved toward the decanter of wine near the side of the room, leaving ample silence between the two men as he poured himself a cup. "I wished to see how your son was doing. Seeing as he is to be family in a few years time."

At the mention of the proposed marriage between Sansa and Joffery, Lord Stark stiffened, his hand clenching themselves into a fist. Tyrion smiled inwardly at the victory.

"You were well treated I hope?"

Tyrion almost scoffed at the feigned hospitality. Court manners were not Ned Stark's strong suit. Nor any Starks' strong suit. His mind drifted to Sansa Stark as he took a sip from his cups and reconsidered that notion.

Lord Stark gestured to the seat across from him. Tyrion set his cup down and pressed himself upward, "Your son had all the manners of a Northern lord."

Lord Stark nodded, not catching onto the double meaning. Tyrion took another sip. How had this man managed to stay alive so far?

"No doubt, you've heard the news regarding the assassination attempt on my son Brandon's life."

Tyrion sighed again, "Yes, an unfortunate tragedy. How lucky he was to have the Princess Nymeria there to protect him from the unseemly threat."

Lord Stark stiffened again.

Tyrion smirked slightly.

Ned Stark lifted his chin upward, refusing to sit back down. His personal guard, Jory Cassell, stood behind him, eyeing the dwarf warily. "You're an intelligent man," Lord Stark looked as if he was ready to purge himself of his mid-day meal as he spoke that statement, "Would you trust the Martells at their word?"

Tyrion let the man stew in silence. Any man was a fool to trust what he did not know. But Tyrion knew the realm was on the brink of war because of this, and he needed to play his cards right.

"Trust is a rare thing in the south," He said, pouring himself another cup of wine, "Especially in King's Landing. One finds it rather exhausting, I believe."

Lord Stark rolled his eyes, "Do you have a point to this my lord?"

Tyrion froze, quirking an eyebrow upward at the Warden's impatience. "My only experience with the Martells is through the Princess Nymeria," He needed to be careful what he said next, "I do not trust her, but I do believe her to be honest."

Lord Stark nodded, a pensive look crossing his face. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion." A nod of his head dismissed the Lannister and Jory moved toward the door, opening it with an unchanging expression.

Tyrion set down his cup and moved toward the door, pausing slightly to turn back to the Hand of the King. "If you're thinking of challenging my sister Lord Stark, I'd advise you not to." Ned Stark narrowed his gaze again and Tyrion inhaled sharply, "Cersei is not one to be trifled with. And she always gets what she wants."

"I appreciate you looking out for your family Lord Lannister," Stark's voice was clipped, "The Old Gods know I would do the same for mine. But your sister has provoked war in the kingdom, and she will face the consequences the same way all criminals do."

A shiver ran down Tyrion's back and he stared at the Warden once again. He couldn't help but feel like Ned Stark had just signed his death sentence.

* * *

"Father has ordered me to lead the Riverlands host," Jaime spoke with a bite of bitterness. The two brothers were walking through the gardens, one of the few places in King's Landing where the chance of being overheard was little to none. "I'll be gone on the morrow."

Tyrion could feel the anger emanating from his older brother, a pang of sympathy striking his chest. While Jaime loved to fight, he hated obeying Tywin's orders more.

One of the many traits all three of the Lannister siblings shared.

They lived to spite their father.

"If rumors are true we may be needing it."

Jaime stopped in his tracks and met his brother's gaze, "The Martells aren't stupid. Driven by vengeance maybe, but not stupid."

Tyrion nodded, "It's not the Martells I'm worried about." He continued strolling through the hedges, it was dangerous to stay in one place for long, "Ned Stark has a vendetta against the Lannisters. And Cersei is right in the middle of it all."

"Since when have you ever cared about our sister?"

Tyrion shot his brother a glare. "I don't. But I care about family and unfortunately, Cersei is family."

Jaime grew silent, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Ned Stark is a fool, but he's not stupid enough to go against Cersei."

Tyrion smiled at his brother's naïveté. Ser Jaime Lannister, always overestimating his own power. They were Lannisters after all.

Cersei was the exact same way. Overconfident and sure of herself. The idea that Ned Stark could target them was incredulous, but Tyrion had seen how the Lord had glowered. The mistrust in his gaze as soon as Tyrion stepped into the solar.

Lord Stark was that foolish. Tyrion knew it.

"You would go to war for her," Tyrion stated, trying to discern the look on Jaime's face. It was stiff and tense, jaw clenched.

Jaime turned toward Tyrion again. "I would go to war for any of you. Like you said, Cersei's family."

With a clank of metal, Jaime marched away, Tyrion's gaze on his brother's retreating figure.

* * *

**SANSA STARK**

It was her last sewing circle with Princess Myrcella and Sansa was pouting. She'd been finishing up her final touches on the intricate lion when the Queen entered.

Sansa immediately stood up and curtsied, the pink silk gently kissing the floor as she did so. The Queen looked as radiant as ever, matching the shining sun that hung in the skies above them, her hair a sheet of gold around her shoulders.

Queen Cersei Lannister was exactly what Sansa wished to grow up to be, and she'd taken careful steps to emulate the woman as best she could. Styling her hair in the intricate braids and tiered looks of the south.

But the Queen's radiance dimmed as she rushed into the Princess's room, soft wrinkles creasing near the edge of her lips and eyes, ruining her smooth features.

"Ah Lady Sansa what a surprise," the words were spoken through gritted teeth, and Sansa's mind began to wonder what she'd done wrong. "Could you give me and the Princess a moment?"

The red-head nodded dutifully and grabbed her embroidery, rushing out of the room. The door closed behind her and Sansa came face to face with Ser Boros of the Kingsguard and Ser Barristan beside him. His hand drifted lazily to his sword and Sansa hurried down the hall, trying not to let her thoughts wander.

Surely the Princess wasn't in so much danger that she needed two Kingsguard outside her door? The Queen must have just wanted an escort while the King was out hunting.

The horns blew and Sansa picked up the pace, wishing to see the hunting party return. The hunts in the North weren't nearly as grand, a simple nod from her father and then they'd reappear a few hours later with a stag if they were lucky.

The hunts in the Kingswood were a marvelous affair, men like Lord Renly and King Robert dressing up in armor like they were going off to slay a monster in one of Old Nan's stories.

A shiver ran down Sansa's spine at the thought of the crone.

They'd always scared her.

Arya would always tease her about the queasiness she would get, taunting her by claiming the stories were real.

It was cruel, and wasn't a memory Sansa like to relive. Stopping on the balcony above the courtyard of the keep, facing the King's Gate. Sansa peered around a few corners and through the shadows, looking for the mousy hair of her sister.

Where was Arya?

Her thoughts were ripped from her as the gate opened, a frantic voice yelling for help. A knot in Sansa's stomach took shape, and she watched as a large warhorse came trotting in, bearing the Baratheon sigil.

The King's Horse.

A figure was slumped over the neck, collapsing onto the ground with an unceremonious _thump!_

Sansa's mouth popped open at the sight, her mid-day meal churning in her gut. Crimson stained the stone, leaking out of King Robert like spilled wine.

It reminded Sansa of young Ser Hugh in the tournament, and how there would be no songs for the knight.

King Robert had songs. Beautiful ones describing his love for her Aunt Lyanna, aggressive ones telling of the fight between him and Prince Rhaegar. None of those songs told his ending, but now they would.

King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, died in the courtyard after a hunt gone wrong.

"My lady," Master Poole was beside her, one of the Stark guards by his side. The look in his eyes was urgent, and she grasped his hand, thinking of Jeyne in her solar, and Arya lost somewhere in the keep.

She shouldn't be seeing such things, Septa Mordane's voice whispered in her ear. It's not for a lady to watch. But the Queen would.

The Queen would watch her husband die in his bed and crown her son the next morn.

Sansa would not be engaged to the prince anymore. She'd be engaged to the King.

The knot in her gut tightened and more of her meal sloshed around in her stomach.

She wanted to retch but knew it wouldn't be proper.

She wanted her father.

She wanted her mother.

She wanted her sister.

Things were beginning to click into place, and Sansa wanted someone to lean on. Someone to play with her hair and soothe her worries.

It wasn't until she was sat on her bed and Poole locked the door that Sansa realized Lancel Lannister hadn't returned with the rest of the party.

* * *

**NYMERIA MARTELL**

The flame flickered near her face, dancing before her eyes as she stared out at the small quarters she'd been confined in for the past six moons.

She didn't sleep anymore. She couldn't.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw Ethan's blood on her hands, the Valyrian dagger plunged into his stomach.

She was a killer now.

Nymeria knew she should have expected it. Obara had shed her first blood before the age of ten, and Tyene's poison had found itself into the throats of lesser men many times.

Her cousins were well-versed in the art of killing. Oberyn had taught them all. Just as he'd taught her.

But the nightmares persisted.

Nymeria couldn't even walk to the stables without shaking violently and trying to contain her gasps.

How did her cousins just shake it off? How did they live knowing they'd taken someone's life?

_It was necessary_ , a voice sang in her head. It sounded like her mother's.

Was that the justification she was meant to use now?

It was necessary?

Wasn't that what Robert Baratheon had said about the killing of her half-siblings? Of the rape of her mother? Wasn't that what Rhaegar Targaryen would have said when he stole Lyanna Stark away?

Wasn't that what the Mad King used to justify the burning of a lord and his house?

Nymeria shifted her weight until she was staring at the wooden ceiling, her breath a cloud of mist that swirled in the air.

She'd been at the Wall too long.

A gust of wind blew out the flame and she let out a frustrated sigh. Clasping the buckles of her black coat, Nymeria stood up and moved into the Hallway.

The flint was in the kitchens and she'd exhausted the last of hers a few weeks ago. Now almost every night she had to make the trek to the wooden keep and light it herself. She shivered as snow fell.

It had gotten heavier as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the clouds. Ever since Jon Snow had returned from Beyond the Wall bearing the bodies of former Watch members, it was as if he'd brought back the cold with him.

His lips had been warm, she remembered fondly with a soft smile. It had been an impulsive decision, something she wasn't used to. Everything she did was always pre-planned, but that soft chaste kiss with Jon Snow was the exact opposite.

It was a half-hearted attempt to get him to stay, but it had left Nymeria with an insatiable rumbling in her chest, stomach jumping into her throat whenever she thought of it.

The floorboards creaked behind her and the ebony-haired woman whipped around, her eyesight adjusting to the black darkness before her.

Nymeria saw nothing and turned back to the kitchen stores. She pawed around until she found what she was looking for, and the floor creaked again.

The Martell girl froze, eyeing the empty storehouse. When she didn't hear it again, she turned back to the task at hand.

Flint struck the wick and the candle was alight once again.

She took one step forward and the wind blew it out again. Her sigh turned into a groan, and she grabbed the flint again.

She struck it once and it refused to light.

She struck it twice and it still stayed dark.

The third time the wick lit up again, and Nymeria cupped her hand around the flame to keep it from blowing out again.

A satisfied smile spread across her face. Her gaze followed the candle, shadows erupting all around her.

She lifted her eyes slowly, ready to walk out of there and protect the flame, until she saw the haggard face before her, jaw unhinged and skin paler than snow.

It was the dead man Jon had brought in.

His bald head shone in the firelight, his eyes a blue color colder than ice.

A shiver erupted down Nymeria's spine, colder than anything she'd felt so far. As if she'd never be warm again.

Her candle clattered to the floor and she ran.

Nymeria's boots slid on the snow, having no idea where she was headed. The man was gaining on her, that she knew, and that was all that mattered.

She slipped and fell, pain shooting through her knee as it smashed against the ground. She pushed herself back up and rushed up the stairs of the Lord Commander's tower, slamming the door shut behind her.

It rattled.

She bolted it.

It rattled again.

Fists smashing against wood threatened to break the one barrier between her and the not-dead man that had chased her. Her heart hammered against her chest, and breathing was shallow as she searched for a possible spot to hide.

The narrow hallway provided none.

It was bare and hardly lit, not a torch in sight. Straining to see further in the darkness, Nymeria's eyes sought out a pile of boxes, and with cracks beginning to form in the door behind her, she saw no other choice.

She dashed and slid behind the box, her injured knee flaring up again as she gasped. She cut off the sound as the door went flying open, biting her lip and pressing her knees against her chest.

She sucked in a breath and waited.

The floorboards creaked behind her. Heavy footsteps making their way through the hallway.

It went quiet.

The door creaked again and Nymeria wasn't sure if someone was entering or someone was exiting.

More footsteps followed and Nymeria continued to breathe through her nose, trying to keep quiet. If she made one move she was dead.

The footsteps continued.

Her stomach twisted.

"Stay," A soft voice whispered. Nymeria let out a sigh of relief. It was Jon. "Lord Commander?"

He asked.

Nymeria forced herself to peer around the box. Her hand landed on something made of steel, an old beam from when the tower was still standing.

Silence followed Jon's words.

She crawled on all fours and peered around the box.

The door slammed shut and Ghost began to scratch at it, the most noise she'd ever heard the wolf make.

Wasting no time, Nymeria grabbed the beam in her hands, leaving her hiding spot to smack the attacker on the head denting the man's skull in the process.

His hands were around Jon's neck, strangling him as he pressed the bastard up against the wall.

But at the force of Nymeria's blow, he turned, seemingly unfazed by it. Jon used her distraction to headbutt his way to freedom, drawing his sword as he spun on his feet. Nymeria cowed behind the steel, still wielding the beam.

Jon lunged forward and sliced the attacker's hand clean off, but like Nymeria's blow, it did little to stop the blue-eyed man. He turned his attention toward Nymeria instead. She brought the beam down in a slicing motion, denting his head yet again.

The grotesque creature continued forward.

Nymeria choked as a hand wrapped itself around her neck, pushing her against the wall, gasping in vain.

The beam dropped to the floor and the creature smiled again, his dented skull and bright blue eyes making him a monster to behold. She could feel the force of his hand crushing her windpipe, hunching inward as she clawed uselessly at the hand, the sound of steel slicing flesh the last thing she heard.

Jon stood behind the hilt as he kicked the attacker to the ground.

She collapsed on all fours, trying to breathe in as much air as she could before something else happened. Her lungs screamed out in pain as she did, a wave of oxygen crashing against her.

The creature stood back up again, this time with a sword lodged in its abdomen.

Nymeria grasped Jon's hand as he lifted her up, an arm wrapped around her in support. "What— the seven hells— is that thing—?"

"I have no idea." He answered her.

Jon helped her take a few more steps when a voice interrupted them, "Othor?"

Jeor Mormont was staring at the creature before him, his lantern the only light in the hall. Nymeria turned around and the creature charged.

"Watch out!"

"Lord Commander!"

Jon gasped in pain and fire impeded her vision. She sprinted into the Lord Commander's chambers, Jon pushing Mormont behind her and bolting the door.

She collapsed against the wall.

She knew the name Mormont had uttered.

Othor.

A ranger that had never liked her or put up with her.

But he was dead. Nymeria saw his body that morning as Sam brought it to Maester Aemon.

No wonder he could feel no pain.

He's a dead man come back to life.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you're enjoying it so far! 
> 
> If you have any theories, ideas, or things you like in general PLEASE leave a comment below!


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